


Pack Animal

by moonlighten, Nekoian



Series: Pack Animal [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Awkward Flirting, English Kingdoms (Hetalia: Axis Powers), Gen, M/M, Scottish Kingdoms (Hetalia: Axis Powers), Welsh Kingdoms (Hetalia: Axis Powers), Yr Hen Ogledd (Hetalia: Axis Powers)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late 7th Century: Gwynedd hosts a gathering to celebrate the new year. It does not pass as peacefully as he would have liked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack Animal

**Author's Note:**

> Alt Clut: A kingdom covering parts of what is now southern Scotland and northern England.
> 
> Elmet: A kingdom covering a broad area of what later became the West Riding of Yorkshire.
> 
> Gododdin: A kingdom which included what are now the Lothian and Borders regions of eastern Scotland.
> 
> Rheged: A kingdom which is believed to have comprised what is now Cumbria in North West England and possibly extended into Lancashire and Scotland.
> 
> Gwynedd: A kingdom in the north of what would later become Wales.
> 
> Powys: A kingdom in the north of what would later become Wales.
> 
> Seisyllwg: A kingdom in the south of what would later become Wales.
> 
> Dyfed: A kingdom in the south of what would later become Wales.
> 
> Pictland: Land of the Picts, who lived in what would become Scotland to the north of the rivers Forth and Clyde.
> 
> Northumbria: A medieval kingdom of the Angles, in what is now Northern England and South-East Scotland

* * *

 

**Circa late 7th Century; Kingdom of Gwynedd**

 

The night air is barren and cold, ripping at his hair and yanking at the mane of his horse, and the leather of his reins bites a hard line into his rough, bow-weathered hands. Beneath the stars – which swirl with ancient spells placed their by their parents to help the people see clearly – he narrows his eyes, cautious in his approach.  
  
The bonfire is clear and bright amidst the high stones that mark the plot of land selected for the small gathering. The feast of the new year, and this year Dyfed has accepted Gwynedd's invitation.  
  
Gwynedd is the only one soft enough to invite everyone; the only one with the courage to talk freely with all those that reign below him. It’s a freedom that Dyfed imagines comes from a mixture of power and quiet ignorance of the sway the largest of them has over the land that he really holds.  
  
He slides down, lands silently on the ground, and then loops the rein around a stake. The other horses all study him with a sort of lazy interest before going back to munching their grasses or supping at water from the little stream that dribbles past their hooves.  
  
“Be good now.” He cups his horse’s soft brown muzzle against his skin, feeling her warmth and indulging himself in her ungrudging presence before dragging a bag from his tattered makeshift saddle and slinging it over his shoulder. It’s heavy and cuts into his flesh but he carries on regardless.  
  
The tradition goes that if you wish to join in, you must bring a token to share, a show of some unity amidst those who might be enemies the next day.  
  
He approaches carefully, taking the time to move in such a way as to avoid detection. Dyfed can already smell the cooking meat and hear the music more clearly: a mix of instruments that should sound chaotic yet blends together and creates something wonderful.  
  
The song is one that calls out to the all-mother and begs her forgiveness for the wars the people make them commit.  
  
Dyfed feels ashamed to have avoided it all these years and almost makes to flee, as he did a few years prior when he’d feigned ignorance of the call and time of year.  
  
He stays however, smiling as Gwynedd begins to sing the chorus. The song is like honey coming from his mouth, and though his dancing is clumsy, he moves with a well-practiced sort of elegance that comes to those without skill but the inability to give up.  
  
Powys joins him, his dancing far improved but his voice breaks and thins, while others clap and laugh or play their instruments.  
  
Rheged, however, is who he locks eyes with first, making the other kingdom pause at his place near the fire, where he tends to the meat and stews and bread. The expression on his face is hard to decipher but he seems not to care much and merely brings Dyfed to Gwynedd's attention.  
  
“Dyfed, brother!” Gwynedd chirps, barrelling over with a bright grin set against rosy cheeks. “You’ve gotten bigger since I saw you last.”  
  
Dyfed opens his mouth to make the same remark back, Gwynedd is certainly rounder and taller and his face a little more mature, but all he can do is close his lips and thrust the small leather bag into his old friend’s hands while casting his eyes aside as though Gwynedd means nothing more to him than some small animal.  
  
“You brought fish and honey and shellfish.” Gwynedd laughs and grabs a hold of his hand, dragging him inside the bubble of warmth. “I always loved the way you cooked the fish and whittled the bow. Are you still good with the bow? I heard somebody say you could knock an apple in two with one hit. I mean the rest of us are good but you’ve got eyes like a falcon, I heard.”  
  
Dyfed looks around, waiting for the music to stop and everyone to stare at him. Yet they carry on. They seem unmoved by his presence.  
  
“The wine came from across the sea.” Gwynedd presses a goblet into Dyfed’s hands. “The only good thing Rome ever did was in inventing wine.”  
  
“He did die,” Dyfed says, feeling his body start to tingle with the heat of the large fire. “That’s all we ever wanted from him in the South.”  
  
“Have you been travelling long?” Gwynedd places the bag down with a small stock of other supplies, some with small carved name markers, some wrapped in bright, exotic material. “You can help yourself to anything, or dance or sing. I don’t remember if you like to sing.” Gwynedd's brows rise expectantly but his words don’t wait. “It’s good that we’re finally all here.”  
  
“I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”  
  
“All the Cymru are welcome, and anyone else who wants to say their thanks to our Mother.” Gwynedd lifts a piece of bread and yanks it in two, gently coaxing half into Dyfed’s fingers. “  
  
“Anyone else?” Dyfed can’t enquire further, his gaze falling upon the hefty frame of Northumbria, his middle wrapped in bandages and muscles clear and firm in the harsh light of the fire. When he looks up to check the ghosts on his neck, he stares at Dyfed. His cheek is still wrapped from where Dyfed sliced him open with his arrows.  
  
It takes all Dyfed’s speed to draw his dagger and block the blow from the sword. It cuts his skin and makes him wince as blood trickles from a wound in his palm. He quickly pushes it away and hops aside, sweeping his cloak around him to hide his movements.  
He rolls aside when the sword comes down again, taking off a good portion of his hair and nicking his cheek. He ignores it, pulling the bow from his back and loading an arrow with one movement. He intends to blind the big bastard then flee.  
  
Gwynedd grabs a hold of him and pushes himself into the middle of the fray without a single care. “Not now, either of you,” he grunts out, apparently struggling to keep a hold of Dyfed for fear of the sharp flint and Dyfed’s ability to injure a soul without needing to fire.  
  
“That little bastard deserves to rot!” Northumbria hisses, “Him and Mercia, the little sacks of crap that they are. Look what they DID!”  
  
“You got those wounds from him?”  
  
Dyfed peeks around Gwynedd's frame and lays eyes on another, the one he knows as Pictland from scarce meetings and meagre introductions. He’s gotten big too, and he holds Northumbria back with a single arm and a gruff expression.  
  
“You don’t know what that little monster can do.” Northumbria pushes away and motions to some injury or another that Dyfed faintly recalls inflicting. “hH’s a demon with big doe eyes. Feral.”  
  
“The Cymru invited us here to promote peace.” Pictland says with a hushed breath. “For one night do you think you can stop making us look like bloody fools? He’s only a _child_ for fuck’s sake, man.”  
  
Gwynedd eases Dyfed’s aim aside with his palm before looking to Pictland and laughing earnestly. “Dyfed is one of our eldest. He’s just small; a late bloomer of sorts.”  
  
Dyfed heaves in a breath and slings his bow and arrow back into their holders, aiming a steely look at Gwynedd. A warning. “Don’t insult me, Gwynedd.” He turns on his heel and adjusts his cloak, moving onto his hair soon after. “You’re blubbery and soft and you’re lucky I haven’t ended you already.”  
  
He takes himself off, smirking at Gwynedd's hurt expression; choosing to separate himself from the others as he always has done.  
  
The cold follows; a constant companion.

 

* * *

  
  
  
His own fire might be small, but it warms his hands and drives away the painful nip the night brings.  
  
Dyfed has always found it colder the further north he goes, he supposes, but it warrants no further thought.  
  
He can hear the footsteps a while before he supposes the other kingdom expected him to and loosens himself instinctively. The need to defend his back is one that has grown sharp. His hand lashes for the bow and cocks the arrow upon a sharp snap of a twig. He flares and whirls about on his heel.  
  
Pictland freezes where he stands, licks his lips and without breaking his momentum says, "Gwynedd asked me to bring you these." He jostles a small bundle of thick looking blankets. "No idea why he'd not do it himself."  
  
Dyfed hesitates in lowering his weapon. Every past experience tells him that anything bigger than himself is a threat. "He should know better than to send anyone over here." His fingers fall loose and the bow is slowly stowed away.  
  
"Maybe he didn't fancy losing an eye." Pictland sets the blankets down with a slow movement that shows off the large muscles in his arms. "And perhaps he noticed that I'm not a fan of the loud music."  
  
"Gwyn notices a great many things." Dyfed lifts one of the blankets and draws it around his frame. It's itchy and stinks of dog, but otherwise is warm and welcome. "But he’d notice more if his mouth stopped moving every once in a while."  
  
In the distance, Gwynedd’s constant chatter flutters down, broken in its faintness by the wooden flute and crackles from Dyfed’s fire.  
  
Pictland smiles a faint, perhaps even fond, smile before wordlessly sitting himself down. "You know Gwynedd well?"  
  
"We're neighbours." Dyfed shrugs and blows into cupped hands. "Hard to avoid him."  
  
"And do you all do this every new year?" Pictland rubs his hands together and holds them out over the fire.  
  
"They do. I usually don’t bother." Dyfed considers it before tugging the tie from his hair and taking a small dagger to even out the section Northumberland sliced into. "A chance to talk and exchange gossip. To see who's more powerful than who.” He purses his lips and lets the dagger’s blade twirl delicately in his fingers. “Apparently we've started dragging the rest of the land into it too. Typical of Gwynedd."  
  
He tosses the small bundle of his blond hair into the fire, where it snaps and crackles; the smell nasty and sharp.  
  
  
"I wanted to decline too, but he talked me into it." Pictland’s fingers begin to toy with the large brooch that hooks up his cloak, drumming at it with small tinks before his leg starts to fidget.  
  
"Funny. That's why I'm here. I think most just agree with him so he'll shut up."  
  
Pictland nods and pulls a blanket around his shoulder. Not for warmth it seems, but so he can curl his fingers through the messy tassels. "Are you a fighter then? A warrior?" Pictland cocks his head towards the bow. "I thought you were weak until you started to move."  
  
"Most think I'm small and weak." Dyfed nips his lip and drains the last of the ale from the goblet. "It's my greatest defence. But I’m no warrior."  
  
A silence falls over Pictland. Not a baffled silence, nor even an unsocial one, but a thoughtful and intrigued expression that soon leads to him nodding, eyes full of something Dyfed thinks might be a sort of respect. Though it’s small, it warms him up and makes him need to look away. He knows Pictland from the tales others have woven. To be respected by him something to be enjoyed.  
  
"I'm decent with a sword," Pictland says, yanking it from his belt and whirling it with a careless ease, making the air hum, "but the bow always seems so fiddly. Dal Riada says it's a bit like using a slingshot but I don’t think he even knows which part of the arrow to aim with."  
  
"Sounds like Powys. He's one of the best swordsmen we have." Dyfed yawns and draws the blanket closer. "He can use a bow, but he's more likely to hit something by throwing a rock at it."  
  
Pictland perks up at this and turns away to study the distant gathering.  
  
Dyfed’s first thought is to see if he can slice open the bastard’s throat. He knows he’d get cut in two as soon as he’d move, but the temptation remains, burning at his chest like a half-healed wound.  
  
"I didn’t know any of you were good with the sword." Pictland sounds almost giddy.  
  
Dyfed says nothing, fearing that he might let slip his murderous intentions and earn himself a punch to the face. "He's a headstrong sort, Powys. Competitive. Annoying."  
  
At that, Pictland nods. A moment later he gets up and bids Dyfed a good night, as if he managed to get something out of the discussion that Dyfed has missed. He doubts it means much at all.  
  
He and Pictland are so separate that he doubts they'll have another conversation within one hundred years. The next one will likely be as short.  
  
Pictland is simply too large and important, and Dyfed so insignificant that any collision between them is meaningless. As such, Dyfed pushes it out of his mind and gets to work weaving small braids through his hair and taking stock of his arrows.  
  
He slides his dagger back into its holder. The blade is clean.  
  
For now.

* * *

  
  
  
Dyfed had forgotten just how big Gwynedd's residence is: a chunk of stone built to defend kings but now outdated, it has become a resting place for the kingdom himself. Various coloured flags fly from poles, and flaming lanterns flicker on the outside. It seems almost ominous in scale and Dyfed feels his neck start to strain from the awkward angle of his head just looking at the towers.  
  
“The last time you stayed with me I think we were still living in the small round huts. Do you remember?” Gwynedd says.  
  
Dyfed nods, half remembering the smells and tastes of damp earth and smoking moss. “Seems like it was just yesterday,” he mutters, but the words go unrecognised, apparently Gwynedd was talking to one of their brothers or sisters.  
  
The mutter sounds faintly annoyed, perhaps even spiteful. Regardless, Gwynedd cheerfully ignores it and explains some tedious part of the architecture he seems very proud of, his words running into each other and sapping him of breath.  
  
It isn’t hard to see, as far as Dyfed can make out, that Gwynedd is slightly out of touch with those of the Cymru. Or perhaps he merely chooses to ignore their jealously.  
  
“We had one of the kingdoms from across the sea here once. They were very nice and showed me all the different fabrics they can make.” Gwynedd bows his head at the memory. “They didn’t seem to like ours, but I suppose it’s not for everyone.”  
  
“You had them,” Dyfed says, very sharply to make his point. “They only come to us to ask for help in war or trading.”  
  
Gwynedd's mouth flops around like a fish that’s been thrown onto the land before he clears his throat and carries on, his tone sounding a touch irritated. “It was the same for me. Trade and military. That sort of thing.”  
  
It’s good, Dyfed thinks, that Gwynedd have his good mood rattled every now and again. To make him aware of the irritation that he’s missing, even if Dyfed isn’t exactly envious of such things himself.  
  
“Don’t you ever have them looking for your skill with the bow, to stand beside them and slay their enemies.”  
  
Dyfed makes a point to wrinkle his nose and shrugs. “I offer myself up to them. They don’t seek me out.”  
  
“I suppose Mercia is the exception.” Northumbria narrows his eyes and smirks.  
  
“Mercia and I decided to team up because we’re both small and easily beaten by ourselves.” Dyfed totters past him and makes sure to very gently brush arms with him. “The fact we beat you so completely isn’t really a mark against _us_ , I imagine.”  
  
Northumbria’s smirk fades and Dyfed looks to Gwynedd again. “Do the high walls aid your archers?”  
  
“Yes,” Gwynedd blurts. “My archery is much better, though, it causes problems too. The wind sometimes changes how the arrow goes through the air, but being able to see a bit more really helps. I’ll show you when we’re inside and warmed.”  
  
“You really think it’s wise to let Dyfed anywhere near a vantage point? He’ll get ideas.” Powys nudges Dyfed hard on the small of his back.  
  
“Maybe we can set up some kind of archery test in the morning. See if Dyfed really is as good with the bow as they say,” Rhegedd says, earning a fresh look of approval from Gwynedd.  
  
“That’s a grand idea! We can set up targets across the south perimeter.”  
  
“Loser has to go and catch the lunch in the forest,” Rhegedd adds. “Winner gets to choose what they look for.”  
  
The murmur of agreement ripples through those that chose to stay.  
  
Dyfed calculates this, and throws in his own small nod.  
  
Pictland finally raises his hand, expression one of some concern. “It seems like if you send the worst archer out to shoot for the meal, you might never get anything.”  
  
“They only want to make themselves feel better because they can knot some twine to fire a few bits of stick.”  
  
“Archery is an _art_ , Powys.” Gwynedd pats his arm and chuckles. “The same as the sword, or poetry or the harp.”  
  
“Good thing too.” Powys gives Gwynedd a hard shove and topples him over. “You’re not much good at the last three.”

 

* * *

 

  
  
After breakfast is done and everyone has washed and dressed themselves to their own varied standards – Pictland was apparently waiting for them all, and Dyfed had taken his time, being the last one to arrive – Gwynedd leads them to his decided sporting area.  
  
The grass is soft and the sun just strong enough to warm the skin, a cooling breeze rolling in from the south. Dyfed welcomes it, breathing it in and wishing he could travel into it.  
  
Home has started its siren call.  
  
“So I’ve decided to use the traditional training test,” Gwynedd says, the sound of an arrow being jammed into wood. “Anyone who can’t cut an arrow in two loses.”  
  
Dyfed sits himself down and teases at a portion of meat with his fingers, savouring the smoky taste and fresh juices in lieu of stating that such a game is mere child’s play. The most basic of tasks assigned to teach an archer how to hone in on their quarry. An arrow sitting vertical, its shaft to be cleaved in two pieces.  
  
“And what if, say, more than one of us can’t do it?” Pictland asks, stepping all around the target, a handy tree-trunk, like its some nasty animal.  
  
“Then I suppose we’ll just have to try something else or we could test another skill like –“  
  
“Or the losers can go together,” Northumbria says, rolling his eyes. “Anyone who can’t make such a simple shot deserves it.”  
  
Gwynedd stares at him blankly for a few seconds before nodding, storing his words for once, like a little squirrel might hoard nuts for the winter. “I guess we can sort it out when the time comes. Don’t worry, Pictland, it’s really a very easy test. So, who wants to shoot first? Dyfed, how about you?”  
  
Dyfed shakes his head and takes another bite from the meat to emphasise his disinterest in such a chore. He chooses merely to watch as things unfold, calculating how good each of the others are.  
  
Some have improved with age, such as Powys, though not by very much, while others have clearly become a little sloppier. But despite it, everyone manages to heft the arrow in two from a decent distance.  
  
Everyone that is, except for Pictland, who resembles some malformed doll more than an archer, stance all crooked and all the tension wasted in his arms, the string far too limp.  
  
His arrow moves in a sluggish arc before landing on the ground and rolling over to Dyfed’s foot.  
  
Pictland goes red and scowls when they snicker, his eyes becoming hard and betrayed when Gwynedd attempts to offer some comfort.  
  
“Let’s just get this over with.” The bow is hurled into Dyfed’s grasp and Pictland drops down heavily beside him, arms folded, his expression full of storms and thunder.  
  
Dyfed stands and slowly stretches himself out. His position taken and arrow pulled back. The target would be easy to hit, with no strong wind to impede him over the short distance, yet he knows now everything he needs to about the others skills.  
  
And for that reason he purposefully holds the bow incorrectly, purposefully closes one eye to aim and allows his hands to shift with the twitch of his muscles.  
  
His arrow stabs straight into the ground, flint first, and it wedges itself there. A monument to the incompetence of the display, one that Dyfed puts on a face of mock disappointment for and ignores how the rest of the Cymru (and those who merely came along) scoff at him.  
  
“Looks like I lost,” he says, pushing Gwynedd's bow back into his friend’s hands.  
  
Gwynedd looks baffled, perhaps even mortified, but thanks him with a sharp intake of breath. “And…that means that, I won?”  
  
“You won.” Dyfed pats his shoulder and twiddles with one of the small golden beads in his hair, chewing the end, purposefully shamefaced. “Don’t look so surprised. You’ve always been a fine archer.”  
  
“So what is it that you want us to bring back?” Pictland’s voice manifests at Dyfed’s side, his expression no cheerier. In fact, he looks even more irritated.  
  
Gwynedd swallows hard and seems to hold back tears. “Deer,” he says. His eyes start to shift from Dyfed’s gaze, up to Pictland’s, where they don’t hold. They’ve gone white and milky, and glisten like bone fresh from the boil. “They’re common. Easy to catch.”  
  
Dyfed is certain, when Gwynedd claps eyes on him again, that he sees betrayal there; as if Gwynedd suddenly understands that Dyfed might have lost, lied, on purpose. But Dyfed is also certain that Gwynedd doesn’t quite have the resources of mind to comprehend something as underhanded as deception.  
  
Gwynedd is a great many things and isn’t a stupid creature, yet he seems not to comprehend the idea that sometimes other people simply can’t be trusted.  
  
Which is why Dyfed has made every effort over the years to be as untrustworthy as possible.  
  
Pictland says nothing. He just walks away back towards the safety of the walls, with the look of a person who merely wants to get things done.  
  
Dyfed smiles at Gwynedd, his sweetest most appeasing smile before following after Pictland and leaving the others to talk about him behind his back if it pleases them.

* * *

  
  
After collecting his required belongings and a systematic check that his weapons are all sharp and well maintained, Dyfed finally makes his way into the big main hall. The cold weather has drawn his kin to the fire.  
  
He makes a cautious way over to one of the tables, brushing his hand gently on the white fabric that rests atop it and pauses to tickle the chin of one of the large wolfhounds that often take residence on the floor there, partly because of the temptation of food, but also because the covering of reeds is soft and comfortable and the room well heated.  
  
The dog yawns and licks his hand but makes no effort to move, allowing Dyfed to enjoy the coarse but comforting feel of its coat.  
  
“Pictland told me once that he slew a whole army of Angles.” Gwynedd recounts passionately, his arm swinging with a make believe sword, almost spilling Seisyllwg’s drink and making Dyfed’s brother groan in obvious irritation.  
  
“You’ve told us that one five times today.” Seisyllwg scratches his chin and his eyes rest of Dyfed, coming to life with a malicious sparkle and a nasty grin before he casually leans over and says to Pictland. “I feel sorry for you, having to drag that runt, Dyfed, anywhere. If I were you I’d just kill him and eat him. It’s all he’s worth.”  
  
Pictland seems to choose to ignore this, more interested in sharpening his blade and staying out of all family politics.  
  
“I bet Pictland will be fine no matter what,” Gwynedd says gleefully, apparently choosing to ignore the slander and resume his previous tangent. “Didn’t you say once that you wrestled a stag to the ground with your bare hands?”  
  
Pictland looks up and looks completely bemused. “That was Dal Riada. He snapped off a piece of the antler and stabbed the beast with it.”  
  
Dyfed feels his heart flutter at Dal Riada’s mention, forgetting all hurt feelings and getting ready to enquire further.  
  
“Oh, I was certain you told me that was you,” Gwynedd says, tapping his chin and flushing faintly red. His eyebrows scrunch together. “How about the time you cut down all those trees, lashed them together and sailed across those choppy waters and took that Angle army by surprise?” Gwynedd laughs and wipes a tear from his eye. “I really liked that one.”  
  
“Gwynedd, do you have any stories about somebody else?” Seisyllwg crosses his legs and lifts his tankard, but seems content just to play with it. “The ones you’ve told me about Pictland seem half remembered and the shit you made up about Dyfed being a great archer was complete nonsense.”  
  
“I did not make them up. I heard them from a bard.” Gwynedd shrugs and studies his shoes. “I’ve never known the bards to tell lies.”  
  
Pictland finally looks up and locks eyes on Dyfed, some innate force seeming to bring his presence to the large warrior’s attention. “There you are, Dyfed,” he says, and Dyfed saunters forward after he stands.  
  
“Well, speak of a sinner and soon they shall appear,” Seisyllwg says. “So you chose to make yourself into a burden for poor Pictland, did you?”  
  
“If by burden you mean fulfilling my end of a bargain? Then yes, Seisyllwg.” Dyfed turns his attention to Pictland, feeling so small compared to him that he can feel his cheeks start to burn, his skin break out in sweat, and a dull angry ache starts to develop in his eyes. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, Pictland. I had to take care and check my bow and arrows.”  
The small implement Pictland is using to work at the well worn blade pauses and he eventually slides the weapon into its hilt. “I wasn’t waiting,” he says, sounding a touch confused. “I had forgotten you were coming, to be honest.”  
  
“I could take your place.” Gwynedd sounds hopeful. “I’d hate to send you out into that terrible cold, what with you being so small and all.”  
  
While such an offer is tempting, Dyfed suddenly feels a surge of terror start to drift into his legs, making them feel slightly weak, working its way upwards.  
  
Seisyllwg offers him a sinister, well hidden smirk, and the implications are vibrant to Dyfed. With Gwynedd gone, all promise of peace would become null and void.  
  
A firm shake of his head and Dyfed responds with, “I lost a wager, Gwynedd. I’d sooner not be in your debt. I have no idea what you might ask of me otherwise.”  
  
“Oh.” Gwynedd deflates. “I just thought that since you were both my guests…“  
  
“You heard him, Gwynedd.” Pictland stands and strides over to Dyfed, suddenly even more massive. “It’ll be good to stretch my legs.”  
  
“Wait!” Gwynedd stands and darts away, his footsteps disappearing with frantic speed and returning moments later, a folded up piece of fabric in his hands. “Take this, Pictland. It’s very warm. In case you get cold.”  
  
Pictland stares at the garment, then at Gwynedd’s face, and finally to Dyfed. As if it takes him a moment to work out that there’s one warm cloak too few. “The one I have is fine.”  
  
“No, no.” Gwynedd teases it into Pictland’s arms, fingers lingering just a little too long. “Really, I owe you for everything you’ve done. And the cold weather is –“  
  
Pictland sighs, takes the fabric and nods, turning his eyes back to Dyfed. “Right, if we’re going, then let’s go.”  
  
Dyfed nods and bids Gwynedd a small goodbye, but it’s mostly ignored but for a dismissive half gesture and a continued fussing over whether or not Pictland should go out at all.  
  
The small glance he exchanges with Seisyllwg is short lived, and various others offer Pictland calls of good luck.  
  
Powys however takes a firm grip of Dyfed’s arm. “If you get scared, you just give a shout and I’ll come rescue you. Okay, Dyfed?” he says. “It’d be a shame if something ruined that pretty little face of yours.”  
  
Dyfed snags his arm free and punches Powys hard enough to drop him to his knees, shouting abuse after him.  
  
Pictland glances back, snorts with something resembling laughter then carries on.  
  
The wind howls, stinging Dyfed’s face, arms and feet when they greet it. He wonders if perhaps facing murder by his kin might have been the better choice after all.

 

* * *

  
  
  
When Alt Clut finally notes Gwynedd’s absence, he does not think to search for him in his hall, amongst their kin; he knows his brother better than that.  
  
He sets out into the countryside, and, sure enough, not even a league out, he finds a small lake and beside it, sitting cross-legged and stoop-shouldered on a large, flat stone, is Gwynedd, staring out across the wind-chopped waters.  
  
Although he does not stir himself from his dejected huddle at Alt Clut’s approach, he sways a little closer when Alt Clut settles himself at his side. Alt Clut mirrors his movement until their knees and thighs and elbows align, and then moulds himself tight to Gwynedd’s side in the hope that his body’s heat might bring some warmth to his brother’s chilled skin. Although the icy bite in the air might explain the coolness of Gwynedd’s touch, Alt Clut does not think it is entirely to blame for the redness rimming his eyes.  
  
Before Alt Clut has chance to tell him to get back inside his hall and beside a fire before he manages to turn himself into an icicle, Gwynedd says, “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”  
  
“Of course not, brawd.” Alt Clut’s response is immediate, born from a sense of loyalty, even though he privately doubts the good sense of anyone who would set out in the depths of winter without their warmest cloak if they intended to loiter around unsheltered with their arse planted on a rock.  
  
“I am,” Gwynedd says emphatically. “An archery contest?” His mouth droops down unhappily, closely followed by his head. “What was I thinking?”  
  
“That it would be fun?” Alt Clut says with a shrug. “And it was. Well, I enjoyed myself, anyway.”  
  
Gwynedd makes a strange noise that is nothing like laughter even though it sounds somewhat akin on the surface. “Pictland must think I set him up deliberately to make a fool of himself in front of everybody. But I didn’t, Alt; honestly, I didn’t. We’ve been training together so hard, I really thought he’d acquit himself much better than he did.”  
  
Alt Clut has watched a couple of Gwynedd’s training sessions with Pictland and, truthfully, he’s not surprised that they have proved unsuccessful, as his brother seems to spend far more of his time finding excuses to lay his hands on Pictland under the pretence of improving his stance than correcting his technique in any way. When he’d mentioned as much to Gwynedd afterwards, however, it had brought forth nothing but a look of blank incomprehension, so it seems fruitless to belabour the point now.  
  
“If he does think you were trying to trick him, then _he’s_ the idiot,” he says instead. “He must know you well enough by now to be certain that you wouldn’t be capable of such a thing.”  
  
“Because I’m so soft?” Gwynedd asks, his top lip twisting into a sneer. “Yes, he’s made it very clear that he believes that of me. Him and Dyfed, both.”  
  
“There’s no shame in being kind-hearted, Gwyn,” says Alt Clut; staunchly, as he has benefited from his brother’s forbearance more than most.  
  
“Perhaps,” Gwynedd says, sounding grudging, “but it’s hardly the quality best prized in a warrior either, is it? They don’t sing songs of heroes who can barely swing a sword unless someone else’s life is in danger. Or who care too deeply about the health and happiness of those who don’t seem to place much value on his own well-being in return.”  
  
Alt Clut is reminded abruptly of the night before, when Gwynedd had sent Pictland away from the fire with blankets and good wishes for Dyfed even though it was obvious – to Alt Clut, at least – that he wanted nothing more than to keep the other kingdom near to his side. It had been equally obvious, however, that Pictland had been enduring the noise and chatter rather than delighting in it, so Gwynedd had chosen – as he was wont to, more often than not – to defer his own pleasure in favour of Pictland’s own.  
  
“He might not appreciate it,” Alt Clut says, the memory causing his irritation to rise just as it had done when he witnessed Pictland’s reaction to his brother’s behaviour first hand, “but I do. And so do Gododdin, and Rheged, and Elmet. That must mean something, surely, even though you only want to tup Pictland and not any of _us_.”  
  
Gwynedd’s mouth and eyes both open wide, and all of the colour that the wind had bleached from his cheeks comes flooding back in a rush. “Alt Clut,” he splutters out eventually, but seems too shocked to add anything more.  
  
“Ah, there’s no point in pretending you don’t at this point,” Alt Clut says, and he knows he’s being a little cruel, but it would be far crueller, he thinks, to allow Gwynedd to continue stewing in his own mortification. “There’s no pulling the wool over these eyes, which have seen, I might add, far too much by now to be deceived. Like the way you can’t seem to tear your own eyes away from him most of the time, or the way you fuss and fret over his every last little comfort like a mother hen, or that you –“  
  
Gwynedd twists suddenly and then shoves Alt Clut hard enough that it knocks all of the air from his lungs. He’s laughing whilst he does it, though – true laughter, this time – which appears to preclude the possibility that Alt Clut has sparked one of the rare surges of his brother’s temper.  
  
“I do nothing of the sort,” Gwynedd says, surely only playing, Alt Clut thinks, at wounded innocence. “And, even if you did occasionally imagine that you saw me paying him any particular solicitude, then it would simply be because I _admire_ him. He’s one of the finest warriors I’ve ever known, after all.”  
  
“Of course he is,” Alt Clut says soothingly. “And of course you don’t. I see now that I must be half-witted to ever have considered otherwise. Your argument is just to cunning for me to possibly refute.”  
  
“Good.” Gwynedd looks him straight in the eye. “Now, you wouldn’t he so half-witted that you might have shared such delusions with anyone else, would you?”  
  
Alt Clut holds his brother’s gaze steadily. “Never, Gwyn; I promise you.”  
  
Gwynedd nods firmly, obviously convinced, and his smile from earlier lingers on. It’s still small enough, however, that Alt Clut finds he cannot be fully satisfied by the sight of it.  
  
Hoping to help that smile grow, Alt Clut slaps Gwynedd’s back companionably and adds, “Anyway, you should take some comfort in the fact that no matter what you do, you surely can’t make as much of a fool of yourself as Dyfed did today. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him handle his bow as badly before.”  
  
Disappointingly, his words only serve to call deep furrows back to Gwynedd’s brow and a heavy moroseness to his voice as he says, “Neither have I.”

 

* * *

  
  
Silence reigns between them even as they drift deeper into the forest, with Pictland staying ahead by several long paces. Every now and again he’ll stop dead, and check the area as if he can smell something like a hunting dog.  
  
Dyfed thinks it a wonderful yet mystical talent of Pictland’s, to move so silently on legs and feet that must be twice the size of Dyfed’s own. Even Powys, who has mastered the art of stealth the same as most of the other Cymru, makes more noise.  
  
The grand tales of Pictland’s skills might just be more than mere fairytales.  
  
Dyfed chooses to break away from Pictland to find the full scope of the land. Hopping over rocks and ledges in the undergrowth that even Pictland would struggle to cross, far better suited to Dyfed’s slightness of frame, his bare toes allowing him purchase and dexterity as he checks for signs of any animal which might have passed by. Failing to spot anything, he takes himself up a tree and surveys all around from the vantage point he’s grown to prefer.  
  
Pictland wheels around suddenly, his voice hissing out low and gruff sounding, “Dyfed, where did you go?” He startles when Dyfed drops down behind him, dipping low on his haunches to avoid any accidental sword strike. Which is a good thing, as Pictland’s sword lashes out in a dizzying arc and the air sings. “You fool; I might have cleaved you in two.”  
  
“My apologies.” Dyfed stands and bows his head respectfully. “I assumed you could hear me. Like my kin.”  
  
“Never make assumptions,” Pictland says, then looks up towards the branches of the tree and puffs out a breath that condenses into a cloud. “What do you make of the pickings?”  
  
“Low.” Dyfed rises and nips at his lip. “Do you hear that?”  
  
Pictland nods, a small ebb in their conversation as they both take in the gloom of the forest. “Hardly a thing to be heard. Silence. Almost unnatural.”  
  
“It’s unusually cold even for this time of year. We may as well have been asked to forage for the finest summer fruits because there’s nothing to be had.”  
  
Pictland considers this, but he looks pained and offended. “We’ll just have to move in deeper. I set my name on bringing Gwynedd back a deer and I intend to live up to it.”  
  
“If push comes to shove we can march the borders and raid an Angle encampment.” Dyfed grins and earns a half smile in return.  
  
After that, their mutual lack of conversation resumes, with an hour passing as they manoeuvre their way through the undergrowth, sometimes with Dyfed skipping across rocks, stumps and tangled roots, and navigating the branches of trees that can support his weight.  
  
He finds a rhythm with Pictland, some innate sense of the hunt that helps their scope more than simply dividing it. Despite Dyfed’s best efforts it’s Pictland who makes the first signals, coaxing Dyfed down from the trees and towards the larger kingdom’s side. With the wind stinging his face, Dyfed spots the deer, which was hidden amidst a patch of fern and jutting moss covered boulder.  
  
Its hoof paws the ground, and it takes a pause to sip from a small brook, ears twitching each way.  
  
Pictland silently loads the bow and draws his arm back, and he’d have fired and missed if Dyfed hadn’t taken a hold of his arm and shaken his head.  
  
“Aim with your dominant eye.” Dyfed keeps his voice low. “Straighten your back and relax, you’re wasting tension in your shoulders.”  
  
Pictland adjusts himself accordingly, and Dyfed pushes his arm up a little before backing away.  
  
The arrow slices the air and strikes the animal’s side, sending it bounding away. Before it has time to disappear, Dyfed has his bow out and loaded, but Pictland has already sprinted ahead,  drawing his blade and disappearing after it.  
  
There’s a pained gurgle and a sickening thud, and when Dyfed catches up, he finds Pictland cleaning his blade, blood oozing from a clean gash in the deer’s throat, its legs still kicking in its death spasms.  
  
“That’s that,” Pictland says, standing and sliding the sword back into its place at his hip. “If we hurry, we can make it back before Gwynedd starts to worry himself blind.”  
  
“I fear he’ll have already started the second you left.” Dyfed smiles and places his bow back. “He’s prone to needless over-thinking.”  
  
Pictland opens his mouth to comment but anything he thought to say is left unvoiced for the moment. He slings the deer over his shoulder before saying, “I’ve never hit anything with the bow before.”  
  
“Your aim was true, even if your technique was stunting it.”  
  
“Gwynedd insisted my stance was improving.” Pictland starts moving and Dyfed moves along side him, less alert now their quarry is felled.  
  
“He’d tell the moon it was as bright as the sun if he thought he could avoid hurting its feelings.” Dyfed shrugs and glances away. “I’m going to be honest with you, Pictland; you use the bow about as well as I can swing a sword.”  
  
Pictland stays silent for a time, swallowing and trying his best to seem unmoved. Yet eventually he clears his throat and says, “How well do you use a sword?”  
  
“I’ve been compared to a small child trying to swat a beehive with a stick that’s too short.” Dyfed snorts indignantly. “But you get more respect for skill with the sword. Make the kill up close and personal like a true warrior. The bow is for hunters and cowards, they say. I wouldn’t allow a lack of skill in it to lose you any sleep.”  
  
“It’s not my lack of skill that worries me,” Pictland says, but after that he falls silent again, apparently tired of the conversation.  
  
Dyfed settles into that silence again, but he suddenly senses all is not well, and Pictland mirrors him when he stops dead.  
  
The growling gets closer, circling around.  
  
The wolves’ ears are drawn back against their skulls, teeth snarling and glimmering and their eyes full of a deep hunger.  
  
Before Pictland can move to grab his sword, one of them grabs at his arm and sends him barrelling sideways, dropping the deer and off-balance. More wolves set upon him, biting and pulling.  
  
Dyfed draws his bow in an instant and makes to fire, but his foot is dragged out from under him, a cry breaking out of his lungs and a hot intense pain cutting deep into his leg. His bow slips from his grasp and he winces.  
  
The wolf releases his foot and dives instead for his throat, blocked only by Dyfed’s arm, claws scratching and saliva frothing, gobs of it heating his face and stinging his eyes.  
  
Just as the creature’s jaws start to draw blood on his exposed arm, Dyfed fumbles for the blade at his waist, drawing it out and driving it hard into the animal’s side. It yelps and whimpers as it jumps away.  
  
Before Dyfed can get his hand back on his bow, his wounded ankle gets grabbed again, and this time he can feel the skin start to shred. He whirls himself onto his back and kicks out, hearing something in the animal’s face snap painfully.  
  
He grabs up the bow, pulls it back and fires. The wolf falls dead, an arrow piercing its skull.  
  
Despite his first instinct to flee, Dyfed can now hear Pictland struggling, his sword slicing at nothing as four more wolves take it in turn to snap at his legs and arms. They dive at his throat only to get thrown aside and tumble back into the fray. One of them falls to Pictland’s sword and does not get up, the fur around its neck turning a bright red and blood spilling from its mouth in delicate drips.  
  
Dyfed stumbles and readies the bow; each shot is accurate and deadly, so fast that he doesn’t have time to think. Three arrows lodge themselves into a wolf before it has a chance to bite down on Pictland’s neck, the second has one piercing from its neck, and it collapses backwards, coming down hard and body spilling down the embankment. The last lunges at Dyfed, earning his last five arrows in a heated, blind fury.  
  
Pictland pants hard and studies the scratches on his arms and legs with some small disbelief, his expression cooling from his battle ready state. “Dyfed, are you alright?” he says, finally stepping away from where he was shielding the dead deer. He places both hands – bloody and sore looking – on Dyfed’s shoulders.  
  
“I’m fine.” He says, hearing his words stammer and tremble. “I didn’t hit you, did I?”  
  
“No.” Pictland looks at the carnage. “You hit nothing but wolf.” He frowns and lifts the deer. “He didn’t miss a single shot,” he murmurs under his breath before carrying on. “We had best press on. I doubt those were the only wolves starved to nothing.”  
  
Dyfed nods and moves to start walking, but his leg caves in beneath him and he shrieks this time. Feels tears sting his eyes. He looks to his ankle; it’s been ripped to shreds and is bleeding excessively.  
  
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Pictland sounds faintly concerned.  
  
“Yes. I’m fine. Just a scratch,” Dyfed says, dragging himself to his feet and struggling to Pictland’s side. “Even if I wasn’t, we can’t waste time. Better to get back.”  
  
“You’re a man of my own heart.” Pictland begins to walk and Dyfed stays as close as he can, feeling himself limp and struggle.  
  
Yet, even if he notices, Pictland allows him the dignity of carrying himself and only slows when Dyfed falls more than five paces behind.  
  
The walk back is long and painful and when they reach the edge of the forest, Dyfed’s eyesight has started to grow cloudy.  
  
“Looks like we might have some company,” Pictland says.  
  
Dyfed stares into the distance. He can’t make out the figures at all and in a moment of panic, or utter terror of his brother seeing him so severely weakened, he chokes out, “I would prefer to take the back way in.”  
  
Pictland doesn’t argue with him, and Dyfed’s pain muddled brain, set to high alert tells him, urges him, to go to the safest place he can think of.  
  
He staggers into the stables, near sobbing and wretched, collapsing down beside his horse and wrapping his arms around her neck. “Forgive me, Emlyn. I know the smell of blood is unpleasant.”  
  
She snorts and watches as he collapses onto a bundle of straw. Emlyn nibbles gently at his hair before lowering herself down to lie and watch him with an intelligent gaze as he presses his fingers onto his ankle and a burst of magic crackles and pops.  
  
Dyfed can’t help but scream out, suddenly glad of his isolation as tears begin to stream. His own healing magic feels more like he’s cooking his flesh rather than mending it, but to show his face in such a condition would hurt much worse, so he grits his teeth, dries his eyes and tries again.  
  
He tells himself over and over that the magic will work if he only believes in it.

 

* * *

  
  
Although the walk back to his hall has lessened the pallor of Gwynedd’s skin somewhat and returned a little of the usual spark to his eyes, he still shivers and shakes in a way that suggests that his cloak-less lakeside sojourn has set the cold of the day deep in his bones.  
  
He refuses yet again to hie himself to the nearest hearth, nevertheless, even though Alt Clut tries to wheedle, bribe and even order him to do so.  
  
“I’m sure Pictland and Dyfed will be returning from their hunt soon,” he says, stubbornly sitting down at the apex of a small hillock tantalisingly close to the hall’s thick, insulating walls. “They’ll probably welcome an extra pair of hands to help carry their game inside.”  
  
Alt Clut suspects that if Dyfed and Pictland have managed to catch so much they can scarce carry it, then that aid would be even more appreciated at the edge of the forest rather than a few short steps from home. It seems far more likely that Gwynedd would prefer to have the chance to exclaim over Pictland’s prowess at the hunt – no matter how successful he may have been in actuality – more exuberantly than he would now dare to in front of the rest of their kin.  
  
Even though Alt Clut would rather go and attempt to thaw himself out, he fears that particular reticence of Gwynedd’s was born the moment he made his own – in retrospect, slightly incautious – observation regarding tupping. The guilt over that realisation, coupled with the thought of his brother waiting alone, his teeth chattering and lips turning blue, makes Alt Clut’s eventual decision to stay far easier than he imagined it would be.  
  
He nestles against Gwynedd’s side once more, flicking his cloak out until it covers his brother’s knees as well as his own. Gwynedd wraps the thick fabric tightly around his hands, and then gives Alt Clut a grateful smile before tipping his head to rest against Alt Clut’s shoulder.  
  
They keep their vigil in silence, but it is a warm one, at least.

* * *

  
  
The sun almost finished its decent from the sky and Alt Clut’s stomach is growling for want of food when he finally spots two figures walking along the path leading to Gwynedd’s hall.  
  
The weak wintry light of the dying day has robbed most of the details from their forms, but it’s still clear enough to tell that one of them is of them is taller and far broader than the other, and his steps are near twice as long.  
  
“The wanderers return at long bloody last,” Alt Clut says, digging his elbow in Gwynedd’s ribs to rouse him from the doze he’s fallen into. “After all this waiting, I’m going to be disappointed if they only managed to fell _one_ deer. I think I could eat an entire fucking herd of them right now and still have enough room for a warren’s worth of rabbits after.”  
  
Gwynedd starts struggling to his feet even before he’s finished blinking open his eyes. His hands fly instantly to his hair, obviously trying to pat it down into some semblance of order, but Alt Clut can see it’s a losing battle from the start. Gwynedd’s hair has always been difficult to tame, and seems to have taken its chance to start slipping free of his braids whilst he slept, leaving odd tangles of it sticking up in random patches across the top of his head.  
  
Alt Clut sighs and then stands up himself. “It’s beyond hope, Gwyn,” he says, catching his brother’s wrists and holding him still. “You’d do better saving your energies for cleaning the drool from your chin.”  
  
“Oh, for…” Gwynedd buries his face in the sleeve of his léine. After a moment’s vigorous scrubbing, he drops his arm and asks, “Better?”  
  
Alt Clut steps back so he can take in the full picture formed by Gwynedd’s flushed, sleep-creased cheeks, his wild hair, and the mud splattered across his truis and brat. It’s not a particularly pretty one, but he thinks a bald statement such as that might be a blow too far for his brother’s already beleaguered confidence today.  
  
“You look beautiful,” he says accordingly, giving Gwynedd an exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes.  
  
Gwynedd snorts mirthlessly. “You are a –“  
  
The sound of Pictland’s distinctive heavy footsteps drawing nearer saves Alt Clut from having to hear what manner of disgusting low creature Gwynedd would like to compare him to. His brother wheels away from him instead, plastering a large, fatuous grin across his face as he does so.  
  
To Alt Clut’s disappointment, Pictland has but one deer slung over his colossal shoulders, though the bloodied blade at his hip and deep gashes scoring both of his forearms seem to bespeak an encounter that might yet excuse both his lateness and the paltry bounty of his hunt.  
  
“You’re hurt,” Gwynedd says in a small, lost-sounding tone. One of his hands twitches upward, as though he might unthinkingly reach out for Pictland just as he would if it were one of his men or brothers who was injured, but Pictland seems to be spooked by even that small movement, given the way he quickly shies out of arm’s reach.  
  
“Aye, we were set upon by a pack of wolves on our return journey. It’s been a hard winter so far and they’re likely half-starved; there’s damn near no game around, it seems. Dyfed and I were hard pressed to find even a scrawny wee thing like this for the pot,” he says, inclining his head towards the deer.  
  
“But you managed to fight your way free?” Gwynedd’s eyes are round and wide, looking as worshipful, Alt Clut thinks, as if Pictland had just told him that he’d defeated an entire army of Angles in the woods and not a few hungry wolves.  
  
Pictland starts scowling even as he nods. “I wish we hadn’t had to, though. The poor creatures were just trying to fill their bellies same as we were. I should have left them the damn deer and run, I suppose, but it’s hard to think clearly when you’ve got five sets of teeth aiming to rip out your throat.”  
  
“I imagine so,” says Gwynedd, with obvious sympathy.  
  
Alt Clut, on the other hand, isn’t sure he entirely believes Pictland’s tale. A small, cynical part of him thinks the other kingdom would have made sure he dragged that deer’s carcass back to the hall come what may, because otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to uphold his end of the bargain struck before they all started upon their archery contest.  
  
Warriors, he’s found, are much more concerned with not losing face than they are with not losing the blood from their bodies.  
  
“Still, I would have fared far worse than a few scratches if I didn’t have Dyfed alongside me,” Pictland says, his expression lightening considerably. “He’s quicker with that bow of his than aught I’ve ever seen before.”  
  
The note of awed respect in Pictland’s voice seems to disagree with Gwynedd a little, judging by his brief grimace. He does, however, eventually concede that: “He is very skilled.”  
  
“He’s not alongside you any more, though,” Alt Clut observes, because Gwynedd seems too preoccupied to notice, let alone have given Dyfed’s absence much thought. “I thought I saw him earlier, but I appear to have been mistaken. I suppose he must have got himself eaten by those wolves, after all.”  
  
Pictland huffs out the sort of ragged breath that Alt Clut has started to believe is the closest he can ever come to laughter. “He’s limping a little, but wouldn’t let me check him for injuries and insists he’s fine, all the same. He just decided he wanted to take the back way into the hall as soon as he caught sight of you and Gwynedd waiting here. Perhaps he wanted to avoid you?”  
  
Gwynedd allows his grimace to linger longer this time. “Speaking of injuries,” he says, “we really should see to yours, Pictland. They’re –“  
  
“Nothing,” Pictland finishes for him. “You should save your magic for more needful things. Though,” he adds when Gwynedd’s head bows dejectedly, “I’ve not got much movement in my right hand at the moment, so I could probably use some help in dressing this deer.”  
  
Gwynedd agrees immediately and eagerly, and sets off after Pictland without as much as a backward glance when he begins to move toward the hall again.  
  
“I’ll go and check on Dyfed myself, then, shall I?” Alt Clut calls after them.  
  
A slight wave of Gwynedd’s hand is his only acknowledgement that his brother has paid any heed to his words at all.

 

* * *

  
  
Although Alt Clut has some slight worries that Dyfed might be slowly bleeding out from a grievous wound he had kept hidden from Pictland, his greatest concern is still his empty stomach, so he takes a slight detour to grab a heel of bread and morsel of cheese before beginning his search of Gwynedd’s hall.  
  
He finds plenty of Gwynedd’s people, dogs, and a surfeit of his own kin, but none of them have any idea where Dyfed might have taken himself off to, nor do they seem to give much thought to Alt Clut’s quandary besides, seemingly far too engaged by their own pursuits to pay him much concern.  
  
Gwynedd and Pictland are elbow-deep in deer guts and blood; Gwent, Goddodin and Elmet are even deeper in their cups; and Powys, Seisyllwg and the rest are involved in a game of knucklebones that has become so rowdy and intense that Alt Clut is convinced that they did not hear his question at all, despite all of the vigorous headshaking he receives in return for the asking of it.  
  
When he turns again to leave them untroubled to continue their sport, Rheged breaks free from the crowd and hurries over to his side.  
  
“Where did you and Gwynedd disappear to for the best part of the day?” he asks, his eyes narrowed down to thin slits,  
  
Rheged has lately begun to view any time Gwynedd and Alt Clut spend together without him with suspicion, apparently certain that the only possible reason they could have for doing so is to foment plots against him behind his back. The idea that two people may simply prefer one another’s company ahead of anyone else’s is one that seems impossible for him to grasp.  
  
“Gwyn just wanted to go walking for a while,” Alt Clut says; there are some parts Gwynedd he dare not share with their brother because he fears Rheged would not protect them as well as he ought. “I think his head is a little sore after yesterday’s festivities.”  
  
“I thought Gwynedd hated the cold,” Rheged says.  
  
“He does, which is why he didn’t want to go alone.”  
  
Rheged looks thrown by that reply, for which Alt Clut cannot blame him – put on the spot, it was the best excuse he could think up, illogical or no – but thankfully he seems willing to dismiss his confusion entirely by changing the subject rather than pressing for some better explanation.  
  
“Now you say Dyfed has vanished, too.” Rheged’s brow wrinkles in concern that is clearly feigned. “Gwynedd would do well to pay better attention to his guests.”  
  
“He hasn’t vanished,” Alt Clut says, frowning at Rheged’s disloyalty to their brother. “He’s just been… temporarily misplaced.”  
  
“When did you start caring about where Dyfed might or might not be?”  
  
“I still haven’t; Gwynedd just asked me to look for him to see if there’s aught he might need.”  
  
Or, at least, he would have done, Alt Clut’s sure, if he hadn’t been so distracted by Pictland’s thick muscles and square jaw, or whatever else it might be that his brother finds so very mesmerising about the other kingdom that it pushes all of his normal thoughtfulness out of his mind.  
  
“And, as ever, you’re his to command,” Rheged says with a smile so thin and unpleasant-looking that Alt Clut is nothing but glad when his brother returns to his knucklebones without another word instead of insisting on accompanying him on his task as he usually would.

* * *

 

  
The stables are the last place Alt Clut thinks to look for Dyfed, not because he believes them an unpleasant spot to pass the time – to the contrary, he finds a great deal of comfort in their warmth and the quiet acceptance of their inhabitants, who are often better company than most kingdoms he knows – but because he thought Dyfed might be more sensible than to try and tend any injuries he might have in such inimicable surroundings.  
  
Dyfed, however, is not, and Alt Clut finds him crouched atop a small mound of straw beside his brown mare – whose strong legs and clever eye Alt Clut had stopped to admire when he came to tend to his own horse that morning – getting covered in dust, horse hair and all manner of other dirt that might settle in his wounds without the benefit of honey to seal them and cause them to fester.  
  
There’s a faint scent of magic in the air, and Alt Clut can see little sparks of it jumping from the ends of the fingers Dyfed has pressed to his leg. Whatever spell he is weaving does not appear to be working as well as it should, however, as the wide gash just above the boniest part of his ankle is still a livid red and seeping blood.  
  
Dyfed curses and then his magic surges in strength suddenly, tugging at Alt Clut’s braids and the hem of his brat. Even so, when the bright flash of light and movement and power has ebbed away again, Dyfed’s skin is still rent asunder.  
  
“I could help with that, if you like,” Alt Clut says, thinking of naught but easing the other kingdom’s evident pain and frustration.  
  
As such, he hadn’t reckoned on how greatly the sound of his voice might startle Dyfed, who had obviously been so wrapped up in his own suffering that he hadn’t heard Alt Clut draw near. Nor does he know Dyfed well enough to guess how he would react to being startled, and thus how he might prepare himself for the blade he soon finds drawn upon him.  
  
All he can do, therefore, is hold up his hands, smile, and generally try to look as unthreatening as he possibly can.  
  
His attempt is clearly not as successful as he would like, as Dyfed does not lower his knife even a fraction.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Dyfed asks, the words hissing out through the gritted teeth that lie exposed by his snarl.  
  
“Like I said, I want to help you,” Alt Clut forces himself to say, even though every scrap of self-preservation he possesses is screaming at him to keep quiet and make his escape whilst all of his limbs are still intact enough to do so.  
  
Dyfed is largely a mystery to Alt Clut, what little knowledge he does possess of him gleaned largely from Gwynedd’s stories about the other kingdom. Even though those stories and the few, scattered first-hand observations he has had chance to make have led him to believe that Dyfed’s nature is wild and unpredictable enough that he might attack with no further provocation than the mere fact of Alt Clut’s presence where Dyfed does not wish it, he cannot bring himself to leave.  
  
His heart might never be as large as Gwynedd’s, but it is still big enough, apparently, to override his good sense in just the same way as his brother’s so often does.  
  
“I don’t need your…” Dyfed’s words are scattered by a sharp, anguished cry as he tries to push himself to his feet, and he quickly collapses back again, sucking in shallow, uneven breaths that catch harshly in his throat.  
  
“Of course not,” Alt Clut says as he slowly advances towards Dyfed’s hunched form. He keeps his tread soft and light, his tone soothing, just as he would if he were trying to approach one of Rheged’s pet rabbits that was not yet quite tamed. “But two hands are often better than one. Well, two _pairs_ of hands, I suppose, as you already have two hands well covered all on your own.”  
  
“I see you share Gwynedd’s talent for useless chatter,” Dyfed says.  
  
Alt Clut chooses to ignore the jibe at his brother, because even though Dyfed’s rasped words sound derisive and hostile, he does sheath his knife, all the same. Relieved, Alt Clut takes his chance to close the last small distance between Dyfed and himself, and squats down on the floor in front of the other kingdom.  
  
Close to, Alt Clut can see that Dyfed is trembling faintly, and beneath the fall of his light hair, his skin is clammy and ashen. Dyfed’s features have always been delicate – ‘elfin’, Gwynedd had called him once, when he was in one of his more poetic moods – but now they look small and pinched, as though he is struggling to keep tight control over his expression.  
  
“Now, I have honey,” Alt Clut says, holding up the small jar that he had pilfered from the kitchen stores along with his bread and cheese, “but I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to be good for. My healing spells have never been very effective.”  
  
“Mine are.” Dyfed sounds overly certain of himself, Alt Clut thinks, for someone who had very plainly been able to finish casting one only moments before.  
  
“So I’ve heard,” Alt Clut concedes, not wanting to risk starting a pointless argument, “but they’re always harder to work on yourself, aren’t they, especially when you’re rattled.”  
  
“I’m not rattled,” Dyfed says, even as a fresh tremor sets his hands to shaking once more.  
  
“You’re not?” Alt Clut asks, not able to stop himself raising an eyebrow at that. “Then you must be very brave. I think I’d be near shitting in my truis if I was set upon by a pack of wolves.”  
  
“That’s because you’re weak.”  
  
It’s a sentiment Alt Clut knows all the Cymru in the west bar Gwynedd share about him and his northern brothers, even though they’re normally reticent to speak it aloud. It rankles to hear it, regardless, and as a consequence Alt Clut isn’t as gentle as he could be when he presses the first glob of honey to Dyfed’s wound.  
  
The flesh surrounding it feels hot enough to be worrisome, and Dyfed lurches forward with a groan, only catching himself from falling by clasping hold of Alt Clut’s shoulder with such a ferocious grip that it will likely leave bruises.  
  
Although Alt Clut’s first instinct is to punch Dyfed in the hope that it will make him let go – out of astonishment, if nothing else; Alt Clut has no confidence in the strength of his arm – he instead makes his next touch gentler, attempting persuasion rather than blunt force.  
  
That can wait until he’s desperate.  
  
“I’m not sure that being frightened is always a weakness, though,” Alt Clut says, thinking that a bit of distraction might aid the persuasion along its way, too.  
  
Dyfed merely scoffs, presumably considering Alt Clut’s proposition unworthy of expending any greater effort upon.  
  
“If it stops you acting when you should, then of course it is,” Alt Clut continues on doggedly. “But really it’s just a natural feeling like any other, and sometimes it’s all you’ve got to keep you from rushing in and putting yourself in danger needlessly. It makes you stop, and think, and weigh up your chances. People who are never scared are usually just foolhardy, even though they call themselves brave, and they could probably do with a bit of the caution they so love to mock in the rest of us lesser beings.”  
  
Apparently, he doesn’t even warrant so much as a slightly deeper breath this time, and Alt Clut glances upwards, just to check that Dyfed hasn’t passed out.  
  
Dyfed’s eyes are closed, but not with the looseness of unconsciousness. They are screwed tight, and Alt Clut is surprised to see they are damp at their corners; threatening tears, if he’s any judge.  
  
If it were Gwynedd or Gododdin in Dyfed’s position, Alt Clut would hug them without thought, but he suspects Dyfed’s knife might make a sudden reappearance between his ribs if he were to chance such a thing.  
  
The fearful caution he had just spoken of urges him to treat Dyfed like Rheged, instead. Like someone prickly and volatile and liable to change their mood with little reason or warning.  
  
He curls his hand softly around Dyfed’s undamaged ankle, and when that doesn’t provoke a flurry of curses and stabbing, begins to move his thumb in the gentle circular motion that has always seemed to calm Rheged’s nerves when naught else could.  
  
Dyfed’s iron grasp does not slacken, but neither does he start sobbing or shouting, so Alt Clut resolves to tentatively consider his decision a success.

* * *

  
  
Gwynedd likes to think he is both swift and effective with a knife, yet his work skinning the deer does not seem to satisfy Pictland, who follows each cut with a keen and critical eye.  
  
Distantly, Gwynedd is aware he should probably feel insulted, but he can’t bring himself to care when Pictland’s strict vigilance means that he has to stand so close that Gwynedd’s every movement brings some part of their bodies together.  
  
Gwynedd has never found the courage to make contact with Pictland unless there was some great need for it – such as correcting his hold on his bow or healing his wounds, on those rare occasions Pictland allows him to do so – because he had come to understand that the other kingdom dislikes casual touches, the kind Gwynedd so thoughtlessly bestows upon his brothers.  
  
Normally, Pictland would always flinch away from even the lightest accidental brush of a hand, but now he does not even seem to have noticed that their hips have been pressed together for so many beats of Gwynedd’s racing heart that he has lost count of them.  
  
Every so often, Gwynedd chances a quick glance up towards Pictland’s face, each time expecting to see some new twist to his lips, some bunch of his muscles or angry flush of his cheeks that would signal a fresh, horrified awareness of their proximity, but each time, he sees only absorption in the task at hand.  
  
Gwynedd strives for the same focus, but his attention has become a slippery thing that he cannot keep a tight grasp upon. For once, he doesn’t even need words to distract him, as he’s never been so aware of the physical reality of another person before; how they move and sound and smell. Pictland doesn’t smell particularly pleasant or even unusual – the sharp tang of sweat and blood weaving around the heavy, lanolin-stink of wet wool – but Gwynedd finds himself breathing deeper than he normally would, nevertheless, nostrils flaring so he can catch more of it.  
  
Even whilst he does so, his shame builds. Before Alt Clut made mention of it earlier, he had never thought of Pictland in terms of ‘tupping’ before, and not least because he’d never think to use so coarse a word to describe it. Only in the odd, fevered dream that leaves him sticky and humiliated come morning has he confronted his feelings head on instead of approaching them obliquely.  
  
He would rather suppose that watching Pictland fight leaves him winded and flushed because he has so much respect for his talent with a sword; that he seeks out his company whenever he has the slightest chance of it because he values the other kingdom’s counsel, never mind that Pictland scarce has words for him beyond any immediate need for them; that sometimes he wishes simply to gaze on Pictland, because…  
  
Well, that he has yet to find any excuse for that he wants to own, but he strives for one all the same, as Pictland has never given him any sign that he desires any more intimacy between them. More than that, he seems to resolutely avoid it: keeping his distance and sharing so little of himself that even after these last few years of their greater familiarity with one another, Gwynedd feels as though he still knows almost nothing of his heart.  
  
Gwynedd tugs the deer’s hide down around its shoulders and then, unable to stop himself, looks across at Pictland once more. His profile remains unchanged, and Gwynedd’s eyes skim down the stark, impassive line formed by the proud jut of his brow, his straight, blunt nose and hard angle of his chin, searching for some hint of what thoughts might be brewing behind the smooth dome of his forehead.  
  
He finds nothing. Pictland might well be carved from unfeeling stone; cold and impenetrable.  
  
“Like granite,” he mutters to himself to fix the words in his mind, as they strike him just right and he is apt to forget them otherwise.  
  
“What’s like granite?” Pictland asks, his voice rumbling in that rough way it always does when he has not spoken for a time.  
  
Gwynedd curses Pictland’s sharp hearing. “I’m planning on composing a poem, and it helps if I speak the words aloud as they come me; to test the rhythm of them and make sure they fit,” he says only because lies do not come easily to him; he always stutters and fumbles for his words, giving himself away in an instant. “I thought your fight with the wolves would make a good subject for one.”  
  
It is not the exact truth behind his inspiration, but close enough that he does not falter in the telling of it.  
  
Pictland sneers at the idea, and Gwynedd ducks his head, abashed and slightly disheartened. “You don’t like poetry?” he asks.  
  
“I like listening to it well enough,” Pictland says. “I just don’t care for the way that poets tend to make some things sound so pretty when I know they aren’t. The warriors they write about all have a fucking song in their hearts as they fight, their swords strike true and their victories are always clean. There’s never anything about how the sweat half-blinds you, or that your muscles burn and your arms ache, or how the blood and shit-stink of battle works its way into your skin so deep that you can smell it for days, regardless of how well you wash yourself afterwards.”  
  
Gwynedd has never heard Pictland speak so passionately about anything before, and it makes him smile a little, even though he doesn’t share the other kingdom’s sentiment on the subject. “Poems aren’t meant to be a true recounting of every detail,” he says. “And people do seem to prefer that they talk of heroes rather than… shit and so on.”  
  
“I just did what I had to do, which is all most fighting _is_ , at the end of the day,” Pictland says, shaking his head. “If Dyfed and I hadn’t brought those wolves down, they would have mauled us far worse than they did. It was us or them, and I chose us. There’s nothing heroic in that.”  
  
“Well, maybe I’ll forget about the poem, then,” Gwynedd says; even if he had had his heart set, Pictland’s fervour would likely have persuaded him against it. “It will be no great loss, I’m sure. Alt Clut has always said my poetry isn’t worth the breath I waste in the reciting of it, anyway.”  
  
Pictland scowls. “Your brother seldom seems to give you the honour you’re due as his elder.”  
  
Gwynedd is surprised that Pictland has paid any mind to how Alt Clut speaks to him, and even more so that it would cause him any concern. “I don’t think honour’s worth very much if it’s just given as a matter of course and not earned,” he says, though, as he doesn’t want Pictland to go ahead believing that he puts stock in such things, and perhaps take against Alt Clut because of that misapprehension.  
  
“Neither do I. I just…” Pictland pauses, fingers flexing at his side; hands almost forming fists before relaxing again. “I can’t imagine speaking that way to my own brother. He’d likely have his hands around my neck before I managed to get all of my words out.”  
  
Pictland’s lips quirk into a small smile, obviously amused by the idea, but Gwynedd can’t think of it as anything other than appalling.  
  
Although he has never met Pictland’s elusive brother before – and judging by what Pictland’s told him of his habits, he likely never will – he has tried to form an image of him based on what sparse knowledge Pictland has shared, nevertheless.  
  
He imagines him to be taller than Pictland, with even darker hair and eyes, and a mouth that is just as full but with a far crueller set. To that picture, he now adds ‘irrational’ and ‘foul-tempered’ and decides that – Pictland’s kinship notwithstanding – he no longer regrets their lack of acquaintance.  
  
“I’d never want Alt Clut to think there was aught he had to keep secret from me for fear of how I might react,” Gwynedd says. “He’s as free to make mock of my attempts at poetry as I am to taunt him for his dreadful singing voice. We love each other well enough that we take no lasting hurt from it, and it saves us both the embarrassment of thinking too much of ourselves with no cause.”  
  
Gwynedd hadn’t meant to sound harsh, nor to disparage Pictland’s relationship with his brother, only explain his own. Still, it seems as though his words strike Pictland in some vulnerable place, despite his intentions, as he twists his head aside, redness rising along the back of his neck.  
  
“You’re lucky you have that,” he says, and a slight rasp has returned to his voice.  
  
No matter what he really believes, Gwynedd can hardly say, “I am,” now. It could, he thinks, be taken as boasting, almost, and pointlessly callous, besides. Robbed of that response, he cannot readily think of any other.  
  
As so many are fond of telling him, his tongue is very energetic, but, much to his chagrin, it has never been quick.  
  
If it was, he’d likely have managed to tease some of the laughter he so longs to hear from Pictland already, and he might know what to say to ease the hurt he has so clearly caused now.  
  
Gwynedd can think of a thousand things to talk about besides – that is an ability that _never_ fails him – but Pictland does not seem to draw the same comfort from speaking as he does. All he can give him, then, is silence, which the other kingdom has ever seemed to prefer, in any case.  
  
He concentrates on skinning the deer again, ignoring all else, and after a moment or two, Pictland heaves a deep sigh and returns once more to his side. He does not, however, resume his watchful study of Gwynedd’s technique.  
  
Instead, he says, “If you do end up writing that poem, I would like to hear it.”  
  
If it’s a peace offering of some sort, Gwynedd thinks it misjudged enough that it makes him chuckle. “I warn you that my brother’s assessment of my skills is not entirely without merit. You would no doubt soon come to regret that request.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Pictland says, giving him a long, level look. “You have such a fine voice, I think you could make even the clumsiest verse worth listening to.”  
  
It is the first compliment Pictland has even given him – perhaps amongst the greatest Gwynedd has ever been paid – but he cannot feel a sustained joy in it, despite the initial flutter in his stomach.  
  
Because Pictland’s face is set stone-like yet again, and there’s no way of knowing if he truly believes a single thing he just said.

* * *

  
  
With his leg now tightly bound in strips of clean fabric and the honey all gone – Alt Clut had allowed Dyfed the eating of it when his stomach had growled loudly enough to make his mare’s ear twitch – they walk together back towards the doors.  
  
Alt Clut’s legs are long and he could easily outpace Dyfed, pretend like they’d never met at all, yet he slows himself.  
  
The pain in Dyfed’s ankle is still searing, worse for the poking and prodding. His pulse feels heavy and his skin is chilled. Yet he forces himself not to limp; to endure it and try not to seem at all weakened.  
  
“Are you sure you’re alright, Dyfed?” Alt Clut asks before opening the door. “You’re looking very pale. You’ve used up a lot of energy with your magic. Your body won’t heal as quickly as it should.”  
  
“Do I look like a child, Alt Clut?” Dyfed aims a stern scowl at him and Alt Clut breaths out a sigh, and shakes his head.  
  
“I’m hoping Gwynedd and Pictland have that deer gutted and ready for the pot soon.” Alt Clut allows Dyfed to head in before him, a strong gust of cold air leaving its sting on Dyfed’s exposed skin. “A good meal and some rest will do you a world of good.”  
  
Dyfed pulls the cord from his hair, causing it to spill in small curls around his shoulders. The drizzle has caused it to turn nearly to ringlets. His fingers attempt to bring it to some order, but they do little more than snarl maddeningly and tremble.  
  
“Would you like a hand with that?” Alt Clut raises his hand, but looks as though touching Dyfed’s hair is the last thing he truly desires, so Dyfed looks away and shakes his head. “Perhaps I should get you a warmer brat to lay around your shoulders, or some shoes, to protect your toes from the cold.”  
  
“I don’t like shoes.” Dyfed gives up on his hair and chooses to leave it down. “I prefer to feel the ground.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Alt Clut pats Dyfed’s shoulder with such gentleness that it was almost non-existent.  
  
“Alt Clut, wait.” Dyfed coughs and pulls his cloak around him, feeling small and embarrassed. “Thank you. For helping me, I mean.”  
  
“I wasn’t about to leave you out there all by yourself.”  
  
“You should have,” Dyfed snaps, then bites hard on the inside of his mouth, drawing blood. “But you didn’t, and I’m grateful.”  
  
“Just come in from the cold. I’m sure Gwynedd is worried about you.”  
  
Dyfed highly doubts that, but he allows his expression to talk for him on the matter. His mouth has started to run dry of words and his body is beginning to feel the strain of them.  
  
Alt Clut seems to take this silence as some concession, though he doesn’t smile, merely places his hands behind his back and carries on, leaving Dyfed the option to follow or not.  
  
His feet move on their own, ignoring the cutting pain, in search of warmth and a full belly to chase away the trembling he still feels quaking through his entire body.  
  
Beyond that, for once, he thinks he might feel more secure knowing the other kingdoms are around him. The hall swims with the sounds of laughter, gossip and the general milling of Gwynedd's people.  
  
Dyfed only has the strength to weave past them and settle on one of the benches near the fire. Yet, he feels wary of laying down his head and taking the small sleep he suddenly wants. Instead he watches as Alt Clut reunites with his brothers, earning himself a fresh retelling of the attack of the wolves by Gwynedd.  
  
His name almost gets stricken from the record of the account entirely till Pictland chimes in, reminding them that Dyfed had been there to assist.  
  
The story ends, and Alt Clut totters along with Gwynedd and Pictland apparently so they can wash up.  
  
“Tell me, Dyfed,” Rheged materialises across the table, his arms crossed and defensive. “Where on earth did you and Alt Clut vanish to?” He narrows his eyes and leans forward. “You’re not known to be the social type.”  
  
“I fail to see why my whereabouts would interest the likes of you.” Dyfed narrows his eyes too.  
  
“Perhaps you went for a walk,” Rheged says; he’s trying to sound threatening. “Perhaps you don’t like the cold and he went with you to drive it away.”  
  
“Perhaps.” Dyfed dips his head. “But suppose it’s none of your business, and go elsewhere. I have no interest in telling you, if you want answers ask your brother.”  
  
“Believe me. I will.” Rheged leans his frame all the way across the table, till Dyfed can feel his breath, tinged with alcohol. “And if I find out you’ve been hiding something from me I’ll —“  
  
“You’ll what?” Dyfed stands, hand coming down hard on the table and baring teeth. “If you want to fight with me Rheged just say so, me and my blade will meet you outside, where the mistletoe isn’t hung and we can settle it.”  
  
Rheged seems like he might accept such a brawl, but luckily for Dyfed he flinches and backs down, an offended wrinkle set into his cheek making him look like Dyfed has some offensive stink about him. “You would do well to learn some respect.”  
  
“And so would you,” Dyfed hisses under his breath as he watches Rheged go. He slowly sits himself back down and prays that the confrontation was petty enough not to offend Gwynedd too badly.  
  
All he knows is that sleep will have to wait.

 

* * *

  
  
As he and Pictland wash the gore from their hands and arms, Gwynedd talks yet again of wolves. He talks of the feast planned for that night, the songs they will all sing together after and – his voice slightly muffled by fabric as he changes into a clean léine – the games of chance they will play.  
  
On the walk back down through the keep, he talks about his best hunting dog and the large litter she’s lately whelped, and how Pictland is welcome to have one of the pups if he has need of it.  
  
“Do you ever hunt with dogs?” Gwynedd asks, and, to Alt Clut’s surprise, Pictland shakes his head in answer.  
  
Pictland’s vacant mien and prolonged silence had led Alt Clut to believe that he had simply been letting Gwynedd’s words wash over him without notice, as so many others seem wont to do.  
  
Gwynedd looks slightly taken aback, too, likely because he had long ago grown used to being ignored whenever he struggles to stem the flood of his words. “I was considering riding out tomorrow with a pack,” he carries on eventually. “I thought then I might have more luck bringing something to bay if the game is as scarce as you say. You’re welcome to join me if you wish.”  
  
The offer is given in a quiet rush, and Gwynedd only looks towards Pictland once; a swift dart of his eyes made without turning his head towards the other kingdom even a fraction.  
  
Pictland’s brow rucks in a way that suggests deep thought. So deep, in fact, that they have reached the great hall by the time he decides upon his reply. “I would like that,” he says as Gwynedd pushes open the door. “So long as my hands are healed well enough that I can hold reins, anyway.”  
  
Despite the wave of heat that rushes out of the hall to engulf them, Gwynedd pales. “I’m so sorry,” he says, voice wavering. “Forgive me, I almost forgot that you… Please, you must let me take a look at your wounds.”  
  
“There’s no need,” Pictland barks out, sounding a little desperate. “I heal very quickly.”  
  
He side-steps around Gwynedd, giving him such a wide berth that he ends up with his back pressed against the wall, and then almost sprints to the nearest table, where Northumbria is sitting alone, skulking in the shadows.  
  
Gwynedd hesitates upon catching sight of Northumbria, but it’s only for an instant before he sets off, scurrying after Pictland once more.    
  
Alt Clut decides not to follow them. He has no wish to bear witness to the dance he’s sure will now follow: Gwynedd’s clucking and fretting twirling around Pictland’s refusal to accept help or even the tiniest scrap of concern. It’s circular, endless, and tiring to watch; not really worth the faint amusement Alt Clut always derives from doing so.  
  
He searches around for other company, and soon spots Gododdin and Elmet close together on a bench set not far from the hearth.  
  
Gododdin beckons him over, and then, as At Clut draws near, he calls out, his voice booming loud and dramatically, “There you are at last!” He presses one hand to his breast. “It’s been so long that I had almost forgotten what you look like.”  
  
“Then your memory is becoming as poor as your aim, Gododdin,” Alt Clut says, shaking his head sadly. “I spoke to you not long since about Dyfed, but perhaps you were too sotted to notice.”  
  
“Too sotted to care, more like,” Gododdin says with a grin. “Sadly, though, we’ve grown sober since Gwent went away and took the ale along with her.”  
  
“A tragic tale,” Alt Clut says as he seats himself alongside Elmet. “Almost worthy of a bard.”  
  
Elmet glances up from his whittling for just long enough to grunt curtly in greeting. Alt Clut shuffles closer to get a better look at the wood in his brother’s hand, but further inspection sheds no light on the mass of feathers, fangs and claws it sports.  
  
“I hate to tell you this, brawd,” he whispers close to Elmet’s ear, “but birds don’t have teeth.”  
  
Elmet shrugs. “Maybe it’s a snake.”  
  
“Snakes don’t have wings.”  
  
“Dragon, then.”  
  
“But dragons don’t –“  
  
“No matter what it is, you’ll choke on it just the same if I ram it down your throat, Alt Clut,” Elmet growls, brandishing the oddly shaped thing threateningly.  
  
After he has poured balm onto Elmet’s wounded artistic soul by way of a clasped shoulder and assurances that he has never seen a bird-snake-dragon carved so well in his life before, he returns his attention to Gododdin. Rather than the mocking smile he had expected, he is treated to the sight of the back of his brother’s head as his neck is craned towards Northumbria’s table.  
  
Northumbria himself remains unmoved, still glowering down into the depths of his tankard, and apparently oblivious to the presence of his two newest neighbours. Gwynedd, it seems, has won at least part of his battle against Pictland’s stubborn will, as he has his head bent over Pictland’s outstretched hands, studying his palms.  
  
The rest of Pictland’s body is leant so far back and away from Gwynedd that Alt Clut has to wonder how he has managed to keep himself from toppling off his own bench to the floor.  
  
“Sometimes I’m certain he’s barking up the wrong tree entirely with that one,” Gododdin says conversationally. “But then other times, it seems that Pictland might simply be far denser than he looks. I’m beginning to think Gwyn might have to strip down and point himself at Pictland, prick first, before he even starts realise what it is our brother wants from him.”  
  
Elmet chuckles, but Alt Clut can only gape at Gododdin wordlessly for a moment, both horrified that he would throw this secret of their brother’s around so cavalierly, and shocked that he knew of it at all.  
  
“Keep your voice down,” he manages to gasp out once he’s caught his breath.  
  
“Why?” Gododdin says, sounding honestly curious. “No-one here is blind, Alt. They all see it just as clear as we do, I’m sure. If Gwynedd doesn’t want his feelings known, he should do a better job of concealing them.”  
  
“I’m not sure he can, because I don’t think Gwyn knows what he wants, either, Gododdin,” Alt Clut says, resolving to talk to Gwynedd later about trying to be more discreet if he can’t manage to be subtle. He can’t stand the thought of people gossiping about his brother behind his back or, even worse, laughing at him. “And, besides, he can’t be _that_ obvious. Rheged hasn’t noticed, for one. You and I both know that he wouldn’t be able to stay quiet if he’d figured it out.”  
  
“Rheged barely has eyes or ears for aught but Northumbria,” Gododdin says, his expression darkening. “I don’t know what possessed Gwynedd to invite him.”  
  
“His king ordered him to,” Alt Clut says. “To foster peace and good will, or something like. Rheged’s safe enough; there’s mistle–“  
  
“Do you really think that would stay Northumbria’s hand?” Gododdin breaks in angrily. “He isn’t our kin, not yet, and he certainly doesn’t respect our ways. Rheged’s _terrified_ , Alt. You know he’s already started his slow dying, and he fears every moment that Northumbria might want to hasten him along with a blade through his chest or across his throat.”  
  
“I know,” Alt Clut says, suddenly feeling unseemly and small. Because Rheged still looks as he ever has – save for a slight lightening of his hair – he forgets sometimes that his youngest brother is but a few steps from death now, and thus his short temper and suspicions are really only to be expected.  
  
He’s ashamed enough that he can’t stomach meeting Gododdin’s accusatory glare, and – like the coward he can sometimes be – glances around the hall in order to give himself an excuse for doing so.  
  
His gaze eventually settles on Dyfed, who is perched on a bench nearby. He looks tired; still pale from blood loss except for beneath his eyes, where the skin has darkened as though bruised. Even at a distance, it’s obvious that his hand still shakes when he lifts his tankard to his lips, and likely he should be abed, resting to regain his strength, and not surrounded by all this noise and bustle which can drain the energy of even the healthiest person over time.  
  
“I would set my sights elsewhere if I were you, Alt,” Gododdin says, his tone sly but yet light once more. “He’s apt to slice your prick off before he’d look back at you in return. He’s almost half animal, or so I’ve been told.”  
  
If that’s true, Alt Clut thinks, it’s an animal that’s quite easy to tame, judging by how quickly he relaxed after Alt Clut gentled his hand in the stables; how he had slackened his grip on Alt Clut’s shoulder so much that his touch began to feel more like a caress.  
  
Alt Clut flushes at the memory, and silently curses Gododdin for making it resurface.  
  
“You seem fixated on pricks today, brawd,” he says, throwing his embarrassment outwards in retaliation. “I think that says more about your preoccupations than it does mine.”  
  
Gododdin kicks Alt Clut’s shin so hard that it brings tears to his eyes.

 

* * *

  
  
  
The game of Tawlbwrdd takes mere moments to cause a fight. Gododdin swears at Powys and threatens to punch him for the insult. The brawl, however, is short lived. Gododdin is of quicker wit than Powys and soon the larger kingdom is staring at the board, looking stupid and stumped.  
  
His hand goes to several pieces, but commits to nothing but a nibble at his fingernails, then finally he lifts one and slides it into place.  
  
The fight kicks off again, though Dyfed is certain any cheating Powys is committing is mainly due to the fact he does not remember the rules.  
  
In the opposite corner Gwynedd seems to attempt to teach Pictland how to play a game of gambling with a set of dice, and on the other side of the hall Seisyllwg amuses a crowd of children with some tale or another in his trademark lively fashion.  
  
Dyfed however doesn’t have the energy to move, and passes on any games if they happen to be asked of him, though such offers are thin and far between. He’s still toying with his food, despite the emptiness of his belly he’s not quite fit to eat the spoils of his efforts. It’s long gone cold, and what little he’s managed to force into himself feels heavy and sickening.  
  
He longs for the peace of the shore back home, to watch the moon dance on the waves and patrol the land in isolation.  
  
His energy has started to fail, and the night threatens to go on twice as long as it already has.  
  
“Are you feeling quite alright?” Alt Clut slips in beside Dyfed. “You look close to collapse.”  
  
“I’m fine, Alt Clut.” Dyfed feels his head spin wildly when he turns to look, his stomach twisting painfully like it does when forced to ride a behind another on a horse. “I want to be by myself.”  
  
“There’s no shame in heading to bed.” Alt Clut almost touches his hand, but withdraws at the last second. “Your day has been long and trying. You deserve to have some peace and a warm blanket.”  
  
“You do not show such a concern for Pictland; I do not desire to be treated like a youngster.”  
  
“Pictland did not have his leg ripped open, nor did he have to trek back on a bad ankle and he certainly did not drain all his energy on casting spells.” Alt Clut sighs.  
  
“I can take care of myself.”  
  
“I’m sure you can, which is why I’m telling you to rest.” Alt Clut runs a small circle on Dyfed’s back with the flat of his hand, though he seems unaware that he’s made contact at all. “You know yourself you’re exhausted and it won’t improve without time to recoup.”  
  
Dyfed opens his mouth to retort, even to lift his hand and smack Alt Clut away, yet in that instant, the warm circles Alt Clut draws make him empty, heavy and relaxed and his eyes begin to shut. His balance begins to fail and he feels himself topple sideways, connecting with the table with a loud but numb thump.  
  
Alt Clut’s arm pulls him upright again, and Dyfed attempts to struggle away from him. His strength gives out and he merely props himself against the other kingdom’s side in some feeble effort to stay alert.  
  
“Come on, Dyfed, I think you’ve had enough for today,” Alt Clut says as he shifts himself around then slides Dyfed into his arms. “You’re even lighter than you look.”  
  
The amount of effort it takes to fight Alt Clut off wakes Dyfed up a little, helping him to tug meekly at Alt Clut’s brat and mumble incoherently about ending his sorry existence. But something else takes a hold of his arms, and he merely wraps them around his elder’s neck.  
  
“Is Dyfed alright?” Gwynedd’s sounds genuinely concerned. “I thought he might take your eyes out…”  
  
“He’s completely far gone, Gwyn. He’s lost a lot of blood and spent most of his magic trying to heal himself.”  
  
Alt Clut shifts Dyfed’s weight, and even in his half asleep state Dyfed can feel Alt Clut’s jaw against his temple, the ridges of his spine pressing into his arm.  
  
“When did he use up his magic?”  
  
“I told you before, but you didn’t listen. I think he might take a while to heal properly. I’m going to watch over him.”  
  
“I don’t need you to watch over me,” Dyfed moans, using what he has left in his arms to push away, but after that he blacks out, lost to a world of dreams and half heard sounds.

 

* * *

  
  
  
The first time Pictland stayed in Gwynedd’s hall, he had been expected to share sleeping quarters with several of the other kingdom’s kin.  
  
He misliked it enough during the day, as he could not shake the thought that one of them might be pawing through the few possessions he had placed next to his bedroll or that his comings and goings whenever he returned to the room were marked more closely than he would like.  
  
At nighttime, it became intolerable.  
  
Pictland was most used to spending his nights entirely alone, with naught to break the peace but the sound of nature continuing its course whilst he took his rest from it: the call of owls at hunt; wolves howling in the distance; the lash of rain that made him glad for the shelter of a sturdy roof overhead.  
  
And when he did spend his days with his king and his warriors, he was given the use of his own private chamber to take his rest in, far enough removed from the hustle and bustle that he could only hear but faint snatches of it, including the nights when his people’s feasting and merriment lasted long after sunset.  
  
Gwynedd’s kin were not quiet, however, even after they grew tired of talking and laughing with one another.  
  
At least two of them snored, loudly enough that it put Pictland in mind of a wind-whipped tree branch come close to snapping, and not one laid quiet and easy. Not a moment passed where there was true silence, and most were filled with a cacophony of snorting, shifting weight, murmured words and occasional flatulence.  
  
That last contributed to the thick fog feeling of the air, which was warmed by the heat of so many bodies and thick with the sweat and drool stink of them. Pictland found he could barely breathe because it sat so heavily in his chest, and his head had soon begun to pound.  
  
He had quickly given up on attempting to sleep and passed what remained of the dark hours pacing the floors of Gwynedd’s hall, then after, when the sky began to lighten with the coming of dawn, he ventured beyond its walls to better learn the lay of the land thereabouts.  
  
By the time the hour came to break his fast, Pictland’s legs were just as sore as his head, and the rest of his body felt strangely light and off-balance, so much so that he found he couldn’t keep it from swaying even with his arse parked square on a bench.  
  
Whilst he picked at his morning’s bread – although his stomach had grumbled and growled all through the long night, his appetite had seemingly fled as soon as he had food at hand – Gwynedd took a seat across the table from him. Pictland’s muscles had drawn even tauter, then, though in dread and anticipation rather than the ache of exhaustion. He feared that Gwynedd had come seeking conversation yet again, and Pictland struggled to keep pace with the rapid clip of his words even at his best.  
  
But Gwynedd had simply looked at him carefully, his brows drawing down so low that the lush spring green of his eyes was dulled to grey by shadows. Pictland had fought to keep from shifting under his silent regard, acutely aware all of a sudden that his hair was lying in disarray – spiked by drying sweat above his forehead – and that the tired weight of his eyes was doubtless dragging at the skin below them, leaving it darkened and bagged.  
  
“I shall find you somewhere else to lay your head tonight,” Gwynedd had said at length. “There’s likely some room or other we can make use of.”  
  
The room Gwynedd had found was likely used to store food at all other times, given the lingering smell of brine and scattered sprigs of dried herbs Pictland kept finding underfoot, and it was scarcely five paces wide and eight long, but he was glad of it, and the solitude it offered, all the same.  
  
He is still glad of it, for Gwynedd had made sure it was cleared for his use on this visit just as he had during the handful of others Pictland had made since that first.  
  
It lacks even the smallest of windows, so it’s always as dark as pitch inside, and usually Pictland welcomes that, too, for it helps ease him into sleep, but tonight he wishes that there were something to let in even the faintest sliver of light.  
  
He had deflected Gwynedd’s questions and his endless anxiety as best he could until the hour grew late enough that he could plead tiredness without raising yet more questions, but here, alone at last and free to cast his own worries out from the firm constraints he had bound them in since he and Dyfed returned from their disastrous hunt, he can admit to himself that his wounds truly pain him.  
  
Usually, he would not dare to use spells for aught but battle outside his own lands – whose familiar, soothing rhythms are grounding enough to give him some measure of control – but as he hadn’t thought to ask Gwynedd for the use of a torch, he has very little choice in the matter.  
  
His magic is a wild thing, one with sharp teeth and claws that fights against being forced into the compact channels needed for delicate casting. It makes him shake and sweat, his stomach roiling as though there’s something hot and corrosive swirling inside, to ensure that he ekes out naught but a small stream of magic through his fingers, just as much as he needs to form a flame that sits neatly inside the cup of his palm.  
  
It burns bright, but cool enough that he can place it on the floor without fear of it spreading or setting his bedclothes alight. Then, with trembling breath and a quick thumping heart, he slips out of his léine.  
  
His hands and forearms are covered in small cuts, thin but deep, where the wolves’ teeth had caught him glancing blows as they fought. They sting a little, and pull so tight at their edges that he cannot close his hands properly, but do not concern him overmuch.  
  
What does concern him is the injury he had kept concealed first from Dyfed and then from Gwynedd, carefully hidden by the artful drape of his brat.  
  
The top of one arm is encircled by puncture wounds, where a wolf broke through his defences and took a hold of him with its jaws. He was lucky that it was his right arm and not his left, so he could keep on swinging his sword, but after a full evening of taking care not to show he was favouring one side or the other as he ate and took his leisure, the distinction seems to matter less.  
  
His flesh has swollen around the deep incisions, hot to the touch, and the blood that has welled up to fill them looks black. Pictland hopes that he hasn’t delayed the care of them so long that rot might have had chance to set in.  
  
He has seen too many of his own people grow sick from ill-tended injuries that became foul-smelling and putrid. Even though he is not the same as they are, he is not immune from such consequences, either. A diseased wound will not kill him as it can them, but it might leave him feverish and lethargic for a time until his body finally summons the resources to reject the poison.  
  
He will heal quickly, regardless, and within a few months, it will seem as though he had never been injured at all.  
  
His body holds no memories, not like his people’s do. He’s fought in so many battles, fallen to so many blades, and arrows, and clubs and yet his skin holds no scars.  
  
All of his hurts are but fleeting, and it seems a waste of time and energy to try and use magic to ease them, whether it be his own or Gwynedd’s.  
  
Instead he slathers his cuts with what little honey he was able to scavenge in good conscience from his host’s larders and then binds them with strips of fabric torn from his spare léine.

* * *

  
  
Pictland’s sleeps brokenly, as every careless movement sends fresh waves of pain radiating out from his arm, and wakes but slowly at dawn, feeling lethargic enough that he might well have never taken to his bed at all.  
  
The splash of cold water he washes with awakens his senses, but his thoughts remain sluggish, and he doesn’t feel equal to checking on the state of his injuries until he starts to hear signs that the rest of the keep’s inhabitants are stirring.  
  
Thankfully, his wounds do not appear to have festered overnight, though they are still inflamed and tender. He applies a fresh layer of honey to them, rewraps his bandages, and then begins the laborious process of dressing one handed.  
  
He has just finished clumsily attaching the brooch which pins his brat when there is a knock at the door to his small room. It’s naught but a tentative sound, so quiet that Pictland could choose to ignore it if he so wished.  
  
He does not, because he can think of no-one assembled who might seek his company at such an early hour – or, indeed, at any other – save his host, and it seems poor manners not to answer his summons.  
  
Even so, Gwynedd looks surprised when Pictland opens the door, taking both a sharp gasp in and a long step back, quickly increasing the distance between the two of them.  
  
He looks bright eyed despite the early hour, his round face pink from scrubbing and his unruly curls of the day before held in check by sleek braids, lying quiescent beneath a coating of what looks to be some kind of oil. Whenever he moves, Pictland catches the faint scent of rosewater.  
  
“I thought you might…” Gwynedd’s chest swells with another deep breath, and he holds it there for a beat or two before continuing. “That hunt I mentioned yesterday? With the hounds? I thought…” Again a pause, a held breath, and Gwynedd presses his hands together afore him, fingers weaving close. “I would be glad if you could join us. If you can spare the time, of course, and if you…”  
  
He trails into silence again, and his gaze drops to his linked hands. His knuckles are growing white under the strain of his grip.  
  
Pictland had lied the other night when Dyfed had asked whether Gwynedd had talked him into attending this gathering. Gwynedd has yet to manage talking Pictland into doing aught he did not already wish to, but, on the other hand, his struggles on those rare occasions when he cannot find his words have never failed to rouse Pictland’s sympathies.  
  
The why of it defies his understanding, but he still finds himself – despite his stiff shoulder, woolly head and weary eyes – saying, “I would be honoured to join you.”

* * *

  
  
Pictland breaks his fast with a few cuts of cold meat and a watered-down tankard of ale, forcing down each mouthful because although he lacks appetite, he knows better than to set out for a morning’s hard riding on an empty stomach.  
  
By the time he ventures outside, the rest of the hunting party has already started gathering. For now, it seems that their fellow riders are to be those Gwynedd calls brothers and not simply kin.  
  
Unwittingly, Pictland’s steps start to slow when he catches sight of them, growing reluctant. Although they have done naught to harm him outside those times when they crossed swords in service of their kings, or ever given him any reason to think that they might, their companionship still makes Pictland uneasy.  
      
They all share a slimness of build that lends itself to swift movement and a certain sort of lithe grace save Gwynedd, and even he has a far lighter tread than might be expected given his solid frame. Pictland feels clumsier than ever around them, for his feet, in contrast, are as heavy as the rest of his body, and never guide him well unless he is in the midst of a battle or hunt.  
  
Yet worse, though, is the quickness of their tongues – how they tease and quip and expect him to do the same – which he can never hope to match. He has always preferred to carefully deliberate what he should say before giving voice to it, because he has seen too many fights started by ill-considered words, and too many friendships ended.  
  
His hesitation, he’s sure, must make him seem slow of thought rather than careful, and he can’t help but wonder if Gwynedd’s brothers pity him for it, and think him poor company that they resent Gwynedd for burdening them with.  
  
Indeed, not one of them makes a move to greet him, though eventually Gwynedd himself does wander over, two hunting dogs padding at his heels.  
  
They are not the small red and white hounds Pictland had expected, having seen the other kingdom set out to hunt with them once before, but deerhounds of the sort his own people breed: slim and long-legged, with a harsh, wiry blue-grey coat.  
  
“They were a gift from Gododdin,” Gwynedd says before Pictland has chance to ask him about them. “There’s no better dog for coursing deer, I’ve found.”  
  
They’re fine examples of their kind, with broad chests and soft, intelligent eyes. One of them noses at Pictland’s legs curiously, tail wagging, and, without thinking, Pictland leans down to ruffle its ears.  
  
As his fingers bend, it yanks hard on the still-healing flesh of his palm, which feels as though it is tearing apart all over again. Pictland bites down hard on his bottom lip to keep himself from crying out at the sharp stab of pain, but he can’t seem to stop his body stiffening or hold back the tears that spring to his eyes.  
  
Gwynedd is at his side at an instant, face paling as he reaches out to take hold of Pictland’s shoulders. Pictland wheels away from him as quickly as he has the presence of mind and agility for, because he doesn’t want Gwynedd to touch him. Whenever he does, it makes Pictland’s stomach knot and head buzz in a way he cannot control and thus does not care for.  
  
“You’re still hurt,” Gwynedd says, and his hands, denied their intended purpose, are clasped together fretfully tight once more. “Are you sure you’re going to be well enough to ride? Alt Clut said that surely you know your own strength and I shouldn’t ask, but –“  
  
“I’m fine,” Pictland says, though he wishes he could then add an amendment to that reassurance; something along the lines of, ‘But perhaps it would do me good to take a day of rest, regardless.’  
  
Although his body would thank him, he discovers he cannot, and not because it would be a sign of weakness, one that he knows is naught but shame for the kind of warrior as he aspires to be.  
  
He cannot because Gwynedd would no doubt insist on calling off the hunt to remain with him if he did, and he would hate to deny the other kingdom the pleasure of the day he had planned for.  
  


* * *

  
  
When Gwynedd had first conceived of their forming a hunting party, he had meant for it to consist only of himself, Alt Clut and Pictland; mindful of the latter’s dislike of crowds.  
  
Though Gwynedd and Alt Clut had not discussed their plan with anyone but each other, Gododdin had still managed to catch wind of it somehow. Gwynedd seems convinced that he must have set one of the fae to spying on them, but Alt Clut thinks it vastly more likely that their brother was just gossiping with one of stable hands and heard tell of their preparations that way.  
  
Gwynedd could not bear the thought of Gododdin being knowingly excluded from the hunt, even though he had apparently been content to let him be so through ignorance, and so he was soon asked to join them. An invitation was perforce quickly extended to Elmet and Rheged thereafter, because two of their number might choose to take their leisure without the rest and not engender too many questions or hurt feelings, but three was like to cause arguments and bad blood, especially where Rheged was concerned.  
  
Two might share a secret, as well, but between five it becomes a conspiracy, and thus far more difficult to keep hidden. Especially when one of its members has a mouth as big as Gododdin’s, and is a garrulous drunk, besides.  
  
He let word of the hunt slip to Powys – who marched right up to Gwynedd and demanded to be included, insinuating that he would be a poor host if he did not comply – and thence from him to Gwent, from her to Seisyllwg, and so on and so forth until all their kin were set on taking part. Alt Clut has even caught sight of Northumbria, loitering around at the very edge of their group, his horse’s reins in hand and a deep scowl beclouding his face.  
  
Thankfully, however, he cannot see Dyfed amongst their number, and he can only hope that the other kingdom is caught still in a deep, healing sleep, as he had been when Alt Clut had quietly stolen to his side at first light to check on him.  
  
He had heard tell of how even the most vicious of characters look innocent and peaceful in sleep, but Dyfed had not. There were still deep lines on his forehead and his mouth was drawn tight, as if he disapproved of whatever dreams might be filling his head, but his breathing had been slow and regular, regardless; relaxed even though the rest of his body was not.  
  
Alt Clut had resolved then not to wake him – worries about the current condition of his gouged ankle notwithstanding – and just rearranged Dyfed’s rucked bedclothes so that his shoulders and loosely clenched fists were covered once more, then let him be. He is glad that none of his kin saw fit to disturb Dyfed later, as he is sure that a morning spent in the saddle would do little to aid the other kingdom’s recuperation.  
  
The sound of hoof beats approaching breaks through Alt Clut’s thoughts, and he looks up to see Gwynedd steering his horse alongside Alt Clut’s own. He halts it so close that their knees knock together, and their horses – who have long seemed to be locked into some sort of power struggle, or else simply took a great dislike to one another from their very first introduction – snake their necks to nip at each other, their nostrils flaring wide.  
  
“I think Pictland regrets agreeing to accompany us,” Gwynedd says, pulling on his reins to turn his horse’s head away from Alt Clut’s before it manages to sink its teeth in. “I doubt he imagined we would be such a sizeable party.”  
  
“Neither did we, brawd, to be fair,” Alt Clut says, casting his eye towards Pictland, who is sitting atop his tall black horse a short distance away. It is difficult to tell whether he anticipates the coming hunt or dreads it, as doubtless his expression would be the same in either case. “It’s not as though you deceived him in any way.”  
  
“Maybe so, but perhaps I should let him know that no-one would think any less of him if he were to back out, even now.” Gwynedd pauses, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. “He might have thought we would consider him impolite if he declined and felt he had no choice but to accept. Or –“  
  
“Or he might have dreamt of this day his entire life and be delirious with joy beneath that stoic exterior,” Alt Clut cuts in, rolling his eyes. “If he will not say, then we have no way of knowing for sure. We can only take him at what words he deigns to give us.”  
  
“The thing is…” Gwynedd grimaces. “Can’t you see that he’s obviously more gravely injured than he told us he was yesterday? How gingerly he’s holding his right arm? How unbalanced his seat is?”  
  
Alt Clut can perceive nothing of the sort, but then he supposes that Gwynedd has made a far closer study of Pictland’s normal posture than he. “Nevertheless, if he does not think it worthy of mention, who are we to say that it deserves any greater attention? It seems to me that if we do, we’re as good as saying his judgement cannot be trusted,” Alt Clut says, placing a comforting hand at his brother’s elbow. “Pictland has always seemed to be a proud sort, independent-minded, and one who doesn’t take kindly to the meddling of others. We talked about this, did we not, Gwyn?”  
  
They had talked of it so long last night in Gwynedd’s private chamber that Alt Clut’s throat had burnt dry and his voice had started to crack. He had persisted, though, because he cannot stand to see his brother banging his head against the stone of Pictland’s phlegmatic nature any longer. He thinks Gwynedd’s skull – or, more likely, his heart – is bound to break long before that sturdy wall does.  
  
“It’s just difficult to see someone you… Someone you care about not take that same care with themselves. I fear I feel all of the concern he does not seem to, doubling my own.” Gwynedd sighs deeply. “You speak the truth of it, though; he obviously does not like to be fussed over, and I’m thinking more of my own comfort than his when I persist in it. I have resolved to let him come to me if he is ever in need of my aid.”  
  
“Or if he keels over in the mud at your feet,” Alt Clut says. “Doubtless he would not spurn your arm if you offered it to him then.”  
  
Gwynedd chuckles. “I’m not sure, Alt. I might still wait to see if he fainted away first before trying, even then.”  
  
Alt Clut returns Gwynedd’s smile, doubling it in size. He wishes Pictland could see his brother when he is like this; quiet and thoughtful. Unfortunately, he has ever given vent to any excesses of nervous energy in chatter, and he is rarely more high-strung than he is around Pictland of late.  
  
Perhaps taking this step back will be just what Gwynedd needs to help calm himself a little, and thus, Alt Clut’s certain, see the improvement in his relationship with Pictland that he so clearly craves.

 

* * *

  
  
  
They have only ridden for a few leagues out from Gwynedd’s hall when their hunt takes a turn towards the farcical.  
  
Powys’ horse had balked hard at a fast-flowing stream, refusing to cross it. There followed a lengthy argument betwixt beast and kingdom, which ended with Powys taking a tumble and his horse taking off at a gallop away from him, making the most of its newfound freedom.  
  
It had been difficult enough for everyone else to contain their mirth once they noticed that Powys had landed right in the middle of a thick patch of nettles, but after he started his hopping dance upon rising, making it clear that the plants’ stings had been concentrated largely on his groin, it became impossible to keep a straight face.  
  
Gododdin cracked first, doubling over in his saddle as great peals of laughter tore from his mouth. After that, no-one seemed able to stop giving voice to their crowing, and the way Powys swore bloody vengeance on them all and raised his fists – only to drop them again a moment later to pat ineffectively at his crotch – only served to prolong his embarrassment over finding himself the butt of the joke.  
  
Even Gwynedd was sniggering, though he did have the good grace to try and muffle the sound by burying his face in the crook of his elbow.  
  
Pictland hardly even cracked a smile, which was only to be expected, and although Alt Clut laughed just as loud as the rest of his kin to start, he soon finds his merriment draining away.  
  
The sight of the nettles, stems broken by Powys’ behind, brings memories of long-ago lessons in herb lore fresh to his mind. Nettles, he recalls now, are good for stopping bleeding, and that thought summons yet another: an image of Dyfed’s face, his skin pale and bloodless despite being held firm in the warming clutch of sleep.  
  
That image spurs him to dismount from his horse and wander over to the nettle patch, meaning to pick up a few of the crushed leaves that had fallen scattered across the ground.  
  
Despite all the noise and other distractions, Gwynedd must take note of his movements, as he soon joins him, though he does choose remain ahorse in contrast. “What a good idea,” he says, beaming down at Alt Clut. “Though I doubt Pictland –“  
  
Whatever assessment Gwynedd makes about Pictland’s opinion of nettles, it is drowned beneath Gododdin’s sudden shout of, “At least your prick is sure to be safe from witchcraft now, Powys. You should take heart in that!”  
  
Alt Clut waits until his kin’s guffawing has died down to reasonable levels again before saying, “I never meant to offer them to Pictland.”  
  
Gwynedd gives him a baffled frown, but it is quick to fade. “Dyfed, then?” he says hesitantly. “I’m not sure he would appreciate such a gesture any more than Pictland, Alt. They are much the same in that regard, I think.”  
  
Remembering Dyfed’s harsh words and drawn knife of the day before, Alt Clut is apt to agree. All the same, he had briefly pressed his hand to Dyfed’s brow that morning – unthinkingly brushing back some locks of hair that had fallen across his face and he seemed set to inhale if they were not moved – and it had been icily cold.  
  
He and Gwynedd are much the same in many ways, too, and that brief touch had awoken an anxiety in Alt Clut’s chest that will just grow if he attempts to ignore it.  
  
“I can but try, Gwyn,” he says. “He can refuse my help if he wishes, but that won’t stop me from offering it.”  
  
“But just the once?” Gwynedd asks, grinning.  
  
“Just the once, brawd,” Alt Clut agrees. He’s a little irritated that his brother would think he needs to have his own advice given back to him, but mostly glad, as it’s a sure sign that Gwynedd has really taken it to heart. “Luckily for Dyfed, I do not have your patience.”

* * *

  
  
He isn’t woken by the rough shake of his kin’s arm as he might have expected, but by the warm slobbering tongue of one of Gwynedd's hounds, its breath stinks, the sort of hot tepid stench only a dog can acquire and Dyfed tries to push the animal away. He merely makes it more eager and its slobber clots at his hair.  
  
“No.” Dyfed feels his arms hurt, though only a touch, when he pushes the dog off and rises to sit.  
  
Surprisingly he doesn’t hear anything. Normally his brothers and sisters are hard to sleep through, like a chattering dawn’s chorus of arguing, terrible song and general irritation that Dyfed hates enough to try and hide from under a thick wad of material and his own arms  
  
“Where is everyone?”  
  
The floppy eared hound wags its tail in answer then it inches closer as if making the same enquiry right back.  
  
He checks around more carefully, eyes darting for movement, but only a loose tablecloth fluttering in the wind and some spiders catch his attention. He is alone for the moment, and he lets out a sigh of relief at the thought.  
  
His whole body is stiff and achey, and his mouth feels like it’s crammed full of swiftly growing moss. A dull pain courses through his veins and makes him feel cold from a lack of magic, and his blood seems to grind through him and carve him hollow.  
  
Wind blusters in through some unseen place, chilling the air further, and the dog’s ears prick up. It runs off then without a second thought.  
  
“Wait,” he calls, struggling to his feet. “Come ba-“ His call is ripped to shreds as his weight rests on his leg, and the surprise of the blinding pain makes him fall, tripping on his blankets and smashing into the floor.  
  
Hands and knees now grazed from the impact, Dyfed shuffles and sits himself gently, remembering now the injury from the wolves, the reason his magic has failed him and almost comically, that he is at Gwynedd’s home.  
  
Not his own as he thought, though why he ever imagined so is not clear. His own great hall is vastly smaller in size, cosier on cold nights and often invaded by small birds and bats.  
  
Tentative steps take him out, to explore and find at least one member of his kin to see what atrocious thing they’re committing. All he finds is cold water to wash himself with, which he does so at some length, till his skin is bright pink from the cold and his hair sopping and rat tailed.  
  
The bandages are tempting to remove, but he has thoughts of Alt Clut’s hand running warmth there and he feels too ashamed to consider touching them, instead pulling his leine back on and wrapping his brat about himself in the manner he’d wear it at home, as a hood to guard his ears from the nip and warm the throat as he scours the coast, hops amidst the rocks and climbs the trees.  
  
“Do you know where my kin went?” He asks one of Gwynedd's people when he’s found his way through to the kitchen.  
  
The girl looks puzzled by him at first, perhaps by the thickness of his southern accent, but when she looks to the brooch on his brat she shakes her head. “They went out hunting. We thought all of you had left.”  
  
“Hunting?”  
  
“With the hounds, he said.” She trembles slightly and dashes around herself. “There’s food in the larder if you’re in want of it.”  
  
Dyfed lowers his hood and takes in the idea, the floor feels warm under his feet and there’s a smell of warming meat, residue from last night’s meal and various herbs and pots and pans hung up.  
  
“My, but you are young,” the girl says, leaning gently and offering him out a hank of bread and some cheese. “Most of your sort seem so but you’re so very fair.”  
  
His fair face earns him a small cup of heated milk, which Dyfed sups at a bench in the hall, the food hidden in his pack lest he be in want of it at a later date, along with the dried meat left over from the journey.  
  
When the milk is all gone and warming his belly like he imagines it might a young calf, he takes himself outside, but any further exploration is hindered by his injury, which begins to seize up painfully, stiffening the joint with inflammation and making him limp as though completely crippled.  
  
He chooses to slink back to his blankets and take the comb to his hair, and to amuse himself in some way, enjoying the peace while it lasts.

 

* * *

  
  
The notes echo through the hall as Dyfed plays the small whistle, his fingers fumbling and uncoordinated, but somehow enjoyable nonetheless. The single lonely instrument does not have the resonating, cloying sound of the first nights festiveness, it simply bounces from wall to wall and dances on the air, missing steps and squeaking every now and again.  
  
Dyfed’s talent was never for the playing of music, but he’s learned the notes and his favourite tunes, just as he’s learned the basics of poetry and swordplay. Despite his lack of skill, he feels at one with the world through his small whistle, and its haunting, mournful pitch has kept him company on more nights than he can recall.  
  
“You can’t play that thing for crap,” Gododdins voice clips in, and Dyfed chokes on his own surprise, making the whistle scream and sputter.  
  
“He’s not much good for anything,” Seisyllwg adds with a screw of his nose and a dismissive wave of his hand.  
  
Dyfed glares at the floor and the flute is instantly hidden behind his back. He dips his head low so his face is covered up by his hair.  
  
“I thought he played just fine.” Alt Clut fiddles with his brat’s hem like a child caught eavesdropping.  
  
This causes Gododdin to roll his eyes and make a cynical sound through his teeth. “Clearly your extended audience of his shrill shrieking has rendered you deaf, brawd.” He wiggles a finger in his ear as if to dig something out. “Or perhaps desperate.”  
  
“We cannot all play as fine Gwent, yourselves included.” Alt Clut shoos them away though they take pause to poke fun at him before he pushes both out the door and trots back over. “I trust you are well rested.”  
  
“I am.” Dyfed watches him warily, and this seems to slow Alt Clut’s pace a touch, though he still pauses to lift a beaker from a nearby bench.  
  
“You looked content this morning so I was unwilling to waken you. We’ve been out on the hunt.”  
  
“So I heard.” Dyfed scoots away when Alt Clut crouches beside him. “Why are you talking to me, what do you want?”  
  
“I want you to drink this and nothing more.” The cup is set down, a thick green mess that bubbles uninvitingly. “I found the ingredients for some healing tonic while we rode and thought you might benefit from it. And Pictland too. I made him take a drop as well though he argued with me.”  
  
Dyfed looks at the horrid green liquid –if it even is a liquid, it seems to be caught somewhere between a mush and a slimy paste – and then looks to Alt Clut and studies his expression carefully.  
  
“I’ve not poisoned it,” he says quickly. “I promise you.”  
  
“I would sooner drink it if you had.” Dyfed can almost taste how vile it is already and his stomach churns angrily in protest. “And even if I did want to drink it, I have to ask why you’d bother to give it to me.”  
  
“You are a guest of my brother and you’ve been injured,” Alt Clut plucks up the cup and presses it into Dyfed’s hands. “It’s because of you, Pictland came back relatively unscathed by those wolves, though everyone seems to forget, and I’m grateful to you for putting yourself in harm’s way. But now you need to mend and I’d like to help.”  
  
Dyfed sets his eyes hard on Alt Clut and leans close enough that he can see each individual eyelash and the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows nervously. “Nobody has ever gone out of their way to help me unless it was of some benefit to them, and to be honest with you, Clut, I see no benefit in this for you. So what exactly is it you want?”  
  
“I desire only for you to be well again.” Alt Clut sighs and pushes a stray strand of hair from his face, a small, patient smile coming to his lips. “You and Pictland both.”  
  
Dyfed looks to the tankard Alt Clut supplied, unsettled by its existence. He eventually moves away from Alt Clut and places his flute back into his belongings.  
  
“You play beautifully.” Alt Clut says to Dyfed’s back. “You know they were only teasing. You can keep playing if you wish.”  
  
“I prefer not to have anybody listen.” Dyfed gets to work braiding his hair, delicately twisting each strand with his fingers.  
  
“Then I’ll leave you be. I should be getting back to the others before my brother misses me before my brother misses me and loses his own arse..” Alt Clut presses the cup into Dyfed’s hands and nods. “Do not drink it if you don’t wish to, but it will make you feel better in the long run if you do.”  
  
“Suppose Gwynedd happened to lose his own arse,” Dyfed says, coaxing Alt Clut into pausing and glancing back. “What is the worst that might happen?”  
  
“He’s find it terribly difficult to shit for one thing.”  
  
Dyfed isn’t sure why but at that he laughs, filling the hall with his childish, wheezy laughter and swallowing it the best it can from sudden embarrassment.  
  
A look of pleasant surprise overtakes Alt Clut’s features, and he chuckles, cheeks dimpling a little and cheeks reddening, then he places a hand on the door and pushes it open, ruffling the flicks of hair that have come loose from his braids.  
  
“Alt Clut.” Dyfed takes a dreg from the tankard, the taste is horribly bitter and foul, slithering down his throat in a solid lump when he swallows. “You didn’t offer any of this to Pictland at all, did you?’  
  
“I only had enough ingredients for one batch,” Alt Clut admits, his fingers drumming on the door. “Take plenty of rest, Dyfed.”  
  
At that Dyfed can hear Gododdin’s mocking voice from behind the closing door and the snap of the wood being closed firm, only muffled voices remaining.  
  
Dyfed wraps his hands around the mug and enjoys the warmth that lingers there.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Nettle stings were believed to guard against witchcraft.


End file.
